Music Matters
by Krohma
Summary: [AU Rock] A foot in the pit, another on stage. This was the double life that Castiel had happily chosen by meeting Dean Winchester. A life at the sound of guitars, on the roads between two motels. A life where music counts as much as the musicians. Sometimes even more. A life where ghosts of the past are songs and inks under the skin.
1. Chapter 1 : The Woman in White

This is a translation of the amazing french story "Music Matters" by Skadia.  
Neither Skadia or me own any of the characters, but the songs are from Skadia.

Cover image by Petite-Madame on tumblr

Please read the warnings at the beginning of each chapter before reading.

**Warnings:** Swearing

* * *

**Chapter 1 :** The Woman in White

"I just wanna die now, and get it over with."

The boy was young, frightfully thin, his crooked elbows were sinking into the mattress and his face was writhing without ever a single glow of appeasement. The doctor had a son around his age. He was armored, immune against his patients pain, it was necessary in his profession. But the kid was awfully pale. Except where the hematomas had stained his skin with a grisly rainbow. He was feeling bad for him.

"Can't we get it over?" The boy asked again, imploring him with his blue eyes reddened by sleepless nights and the tears that he was refusing to let flow. He was named after an angel and the doctor knew that between two treatments, the nurses were saddened, seeing him dying little by little.

The last appraisals were bad. Awfully bad. The doctor leaned on the boy's bed.

"You want to stop feeling pain, Castiel, not to die."

"At that stage, there's no difference." The kid grumbled.

That very night, his name passed on the priority list for a bone marrow transplant. Through the locked door and the mist of his sleepless nights he heard his mother moan and cry. Priority list, as to say imminent deaths list. He closed his eyes and tried vainly to think about anything else but the pain crushing his bones and spilling acid through his veins.

##

On the paper it was a good idea. On the paper it was a good deed and it could save a life. But fuck it was hurting like hell! The anesthetic cream he had had on his hip was only anesthetizing his skin but not the bone where a sadistic executioner was about to thrust a mandrill so big that Dean had decided to describe it to Sam like a rhinoceros horn. He gritted his teeth, hanging on the thought that he was about to save a life.

A fat lot of good it was doing to him.

"You're okay?"

The voice came from far away and he nodded, thinking that _no, of course he wasn't fucking ok!_

He kept going on uttering a litany of insults in his mind until the general anesthesia dives him into a saving sleep.

##

"Beautiful day to be reborn, isn't it?"

Castiel didn't feel like pointing out to the doctor how his happy exclamation seemed ridiculous to him. But the pain had attenuated and he could be grateful for that. Nauseas and perpetual tiredness were still here, but the doctor was promising it would only be getting better.

"The transplant actually took, and if you're regular in your follow-up treatment it will get better in no time."

Castiel nodded slowly and watched the nurse who unhooked the plastic bag that dangled down on a IV pole on his right. A few bloody mark were remaining in the manifold she rolled up on itself before plugging the drip.

He decided that light red was his favorite color and then fell asleep without noticing.

##

The girl was softly stroking his hand while he was drowsing in his hospital bed, the rest of the anesthesia making him drift in a blissful hebetude.

"What do you wanna be later?"

Dean barely heard the question and answered the first thing that crossed his mind.

"A rockstar." He whispered, opening his eyes a little. His eyelids were so heavy that he closed them almost immediately.

"But I also really like cars."

He fell asleep before he could end his phrase.

It wasn't that hard, finally, to save a life.

##

**Five years later.**

They were in an unpretentious bar which had hired them for a five representations series. They were playing in the almost general indifference and sometimes sold a few CD that they burnt themselves. Mostly it was a life that suited them. Dean watched over Sam like he had always done, and Sam looked for trouble like he had always done. Frequently, they sat at the counter, the old leather notebook containing all their compositions between them, and, with each a pen in their hand, they wrote songs like one does exquisite corpses.

The first pages were reserved for the songs list and over time they had seen emerge common themes like a very long horror story put on rhymes on Dean's guitar chords and the rhythm of Sam's drums.

"You know, most people write love story in their songs." The younger brother joked, his large body wallowed on the counter, rotating his stool one side to another without his shoulder or torso moving. He always ended up resting his head on one of his arms, his pen pointed in the air as if inspiration was going to strike him like lightning. His too long and poorly cut hairs brushed the sticky counter.

"Looks like we're not most people." Dean replicated, clicking his pen on his beer bottle.

Later in the night, they would go back to the motel, the first one in the directory, the cheapest, and would sleep until the day after. It was a wandering life and it suited them.

Why had it been different that night?

Why in the middle of the indifferent crowd was there a young man who wasn't taking his eyes off Dean? It happened sometimes and it always made him feel rather uncomfortable. It was weird for someone who had decreed willing to be a rockstar at his eighteen to not appreciate the others' eyes on him. Although it amused Sam a lot. Dean knew he could bear a crowd's watch without batting an eye, he had already did it in circumstances more or less enjoyable. But the stranger was barely blinking, wasn't moving from his position down the bar and was shooting at him an oddly fixed look. Dean missed a chord and lost the thread of his song without anyone but Sam notices. He forced himself to look away from the stranger down the bar and concentrated on what he was singing. There was no other incident in the evening.

At the end of the representation that Dean called "_Guitar Tour_" he let Sam repack his drums while he went to order them two beers. The barmaid smiled to him.

"The drinks are on the house." She said. He winked at her and waited for his brother, emptying his first drink of the night. Sam came back quickly, his drumsticks rising from his jeans back pocket. He handed the old notebook to Dean.

"Inspired?"

"Not at all." The older answered, handing him his drink. Sam perched himself on the stool that he made rotate from left to right, his only fixed point seeming to be his hands wrapped around his beer.

"What happened earlier? You didn't miss a chord in months."

"There was a guy watching me."

Sam raised an eyebrow adorned with a silver ring (Dean had stopped long ago to try to count the amount of piercing of his brother, it seemed to him that he had a new one per month and that others disappeared at the same rhythm).

"The trench coat guy over there?" He asked, indicating the stranger with his bottleneck.

"He's still looking at you. Want me to leave you two alone?" He had that grin that displeased Dean.

"Don't you have a poor fangirl to drag in the back room instead of jerking me around?" He grouched.

"Why poor? No one complained until now!" Sam said, grinning.

"You know that someday being part of a shabby rock band won't be enough to pick up girls? That you'll have to develop a real personality for that?" Dean teased.

Sam got up and pushed the notebook toward his brother. "Or else we seriously work on becoming famous so we can really earn our living with our music? Now back to work jerk!"

Dean watched him go away with a blond girl who was a head shorter than him and they went out of the bar, leaving the singer alone with his beer and his notebook. He turned the pages absentmindedly without changing anything.

"_Can I tell you something _is a good song." A deep voice said next to him. The trench coat stranger had drawn closer to the bar and was hauling himself on a stool while gesturing the barmaid to bring him a beer.

"Do we know each other?" Dean asked on a crabby tone. He wasn't supposed to address like that to one of the rare persons who really paid attention to his music, he knew that, but the stranger was making him uncomfortable. Closely, his eyes which almost didn't blink were a pretty blue turning a bit on green because of the dusty lightning in the bar. He looked young and tired.

"You saved my life."

"I don't remember doing anything like that." The musician answered, amused.

"Five years ago, the 18th of September, you made a bone marrow donation."

"How do you know that?" Dean asked, resting abruptly his beer on the counter.

"Because I was the receiver."

"I thought that stuff was anonymous!"

"It is. Took me two years to find you."

He was looking at Dean with eyes within the singer was seeing nothing more but a sort of relief. He was still on his guard but that guy, no, that kid, knew something about him that only Sam knew. Even their father ignored that Dean had donated his bone marrow. He still had a little scar on his hip that he brushed with the top of his thumb when he was feeling a bit useless, a bit wretched for choosing a wandering life rather than doing something useful to the society.

"I'm Castiel." The stranger said, extending a pale hand that Dean shook by automatism.

"Why trying to find me? Got some complaining?"

Castiel shook his head and lowered his eyes on his own and still untouched beer.

"I just wanted to thank you. It was important for me."

Dean didn't answer. The other stood up, taking his drink with him after waving him goodbye. The singer's voice, barely louder than the bar's hubbub, held him back.

"What do you do for a living?"

Castiel turned back, puzzled, and Dean adressed him a small smile, shrugging. "I wouldn't want the life I unintentionally saved being stupidly wasted. So what do you do of your second chance?"

"I'm studying mathematics." Castiel said. "And accountancy."

Dean chocked on his beer. "You're kidding right?"

The other shook his head with a light smile. Dean gestured him with his chin to invite him to sit next to him.

"I like the numbers immutability. Whatever you do, one plus one always make two."

Dean had a smirk. "Sometimes one and one end up making three after 9 months."

Castiel seemed puzzled a few seconds before understanding and he shook his head again.

"This is exactly why accountancy pleases me. This sort of item isn't taken into account."

"You're a weird kid." Dean commented, amused despite himself.

"Anything you want to complain about?" Castiel joked.

Dean shrugged and they ended their beers silently.

Castiel was still here the night after and he slipped away right after the brothers' singing tour. Dean saw him again only weeks after.

Here and there they shared a beer and only once Dean saw him swallow some pills with his first mouthful. The idea of the young man wormed itself in his head like a cat meowing in front of the door until you open it.

Castiel settled himself gradually in his life like the unknown cat that curls on the crouch without someone has asked it anything. Purring so loud that you don't have the courage to dismiss it. Castiel didn't purr, but Dean couldn't find in himself the slightest will to keep him away from him. This lasted some weeks, some months.

How from that did they move a night to their hands running on each other's body, Castiel's back pressed against the outside wall of the bar where Free Will had just given a performance? None of the two could have answered. It seemed natural and they wanted it. Castiel liked things certain and immutable, Dean liked the heat of the moment. They were functioning curiously well, as if their blood compatibility was assuring their souls compatibility.

"Why did you wait so long before showing yourself?" Dean asked between two kisses. Castiel was kissing like nothing in the world was more important than the musician's lips against his own.

"I wanted to wait five years."

"Why five years?"

Castiel raised his left wrist on which, in the twilight, Dean couldn't have discerned a tattoo if he hadn't already seen it in day light. A dandelion from which were falling five egrets.

"Five years of total remission. It means I'm cured. I wanted to be sure I hadn't done all that work for finally relapsing after thanking you."

Dean lifted his hand up to Castiel's wrist where he dropped a light kiss. "One more egret per year?" He asked, brushing the flower in slight superimposition with his thumb. Castiel nodded.

"Your arm is gonna be fully covered someday."

"I hope so. And this will be totally thanks to you."

##

**Three years later.**

Eight egrets. Castiel was massaging his arm with a healing cream, running his thumb again and again on the sensitized skin just like if it had been burnt. He was lying on Dean's bunk in the tour bus. Dean wasn't really getting used to have a bus to travel from one state to another, he wasn't really getting used to fame either. But it was quiet nice not navigating anymore from motel to motel at the rhythm of bars hiring them for one night or two. It was nice to know that now, Sam wouldn't lack anything and that they wouldn't have to squeeze his drums in the trunk of an old car ready to give up the ghost anymore. They weren't famous or rich enough to believe that they would be free from want forever, but their situation had become way more comfortable than two years ago now that they had signed in an independent label that assured them a publicity important enough to increase their public.

In the little built-in screen above the tour bus table, Rose Dawson was talking about the love of her life. "He saved me... in every way that a person can be saved."

Dean sighed and contracted all of his muscles to stretch himself without moving from his position in his bunk, his arms wrapped around Castiel who wasn't taking his eyes off the movie.

"I can't believe you're making me watch _Titanic _for the fifth time!" He growled.

"I didn't force you." Replied the other.

It was true, but Dean didn't intent to take that as a good reason enough to not bitch. They were heading toward a town which Dean had already forgotten the name. Later in the evening, Castiel would tape a paper with the town's name on the bottom of his mic so he wouldn't commit a blunder. He'd be somewhere in the crowd, probably their most ancient fan and the most loyal one. Sam and Kevin would probably mingle with the crowd after the show while Charlie would help the roadies to store the equipment. It was a ritual that was only disrupted by Castiel's presence or absence. It lasted for three months already and Dean would see the end of the tour coming with relief and gratitude. He let himself being cradled by the truck's purring and the regular jolt of the road, removed his already numb arm from under his lover's body and fell asleep while Rose and Jack were partying in the third classes' steerage, cradled by the monotonous sound of the bass Charlie was playing softly on the bunk above them... Castiel was still absentmindedly massaging his freshly tattooed wrist.

When he awoke, the sun was filtering through the clouds, enlightening the whole countryside that they were crossing with a golden light that seemed brighter because of the grey steel sky that he was seeing through the tour bus window. Castiel had moved toward the little table on which he had put his feet, a book propped between his knees. He was nibbling one of his thumb nail and was turning the pages at a regular rhythm.

"I like this sort of weather." Dean said in an undertone just to test his ability to speak. Castiel nodded slowly and raised his chin toward the bunk above, indicating to him not to wake Charlie.

"Me either. It's my favorite." He whispered, drawing the curtain to reveal more of the window. Dean stood up cautiously (there was no day left without him bumping somewhere in that fucking bus and it was even worse for Sam) and he sat next to Castiel to kiss him on his cheek.

"I know, that's why I like it."

The other frowned. "I thought I had fallen in love with Axl Rose, why do I find myself with a poor romantic copy of John Lennon?" He joked.

"Cause it's the music that matters, not the musician." Dean answered, grasping his chin so he could kiss him in the neck.

Castiel had no valid counter-argument.

##

Castiel arranged the collar of Dean's black jacket and stood up on tip-toe to kiss him softly.

"I'll be waiting for you after the show. Maybe naked on your bed." He promised with a beguiling smile.

"You really want to turn me on before I enter the scene?" The singer asked.

"You're always turned on before entering the scene."

Dean laughed. Across the backstage door, they were hearing the murmur of the crowd who was getting impatient and the familiar sound of Free Will's stage crew who was finishing to set everything up.

Castiel slipped away and joined the pit of the concert hall. It wasn't the biggest where Free Will had performed, but the crowd was already huge and he stepped aside carefully from the mass of young people who was agglutinating against the barriers lining the stage where roadies and some of hall employee were adjusting the cymbals of Sam's drums and were taping set lists on the floor.

He took vacations according to the group's tours, an accountant had this sort of benefit, and found a way to follow them as much as possible. It wasn't as much as he would have wanted. He could slip in Dean's bunk or hotel room, but he preferred the safety of his own apartment. Free Will was certainly not destined to be the most famous band of all time, but their always increasing fanbase was starting to make him uncomfortable. More than once in the last months, he had been recognized in the street while he was nobody, only because fans had seen him hanging out with the Winchesters. He didn't like that and tried to be as discreet as possible.

The crowd continued to gather around him, making him zigzag toward a safe area where he was not likely to be knocked over. Two girls, sitting on the floor, were chatting at a rather low volume, their glasses of beer laying between them. One was wearing a red bandana which picked Castiel's attention. No strand of hair was to see, she was pale and thin but was smiling to her friend as if it was the best day of her life ever.

"You're Castiel?" A voice asked behind him. He turned around, surprised, and nodded. "Can I have an autograph?"

The two girls sitting on the floor stopped their chatting and Castiel lowered his eyes on the paper he was given with a big black marker.

"No hem... I... Why an autograph I am... Well I'm not with the band, I'm here as a spectator!" He stammered, horribly embarrassed and regretting not having anything to fiddle with to keep his hands busy and reject the pen that he was given with a lot of insistence.

"Not with the band? You sleep in the tour bus!" The girl who was talking to him and whom he was only looking at the hands replied. It would be too real, too intrusive to give a face to this person. Castiel was terrified by what it was implying. It meant that at least one person had noticed his comings and goings, had watched him enough to know his name and where he slept. It meant she certainly had her ideas on his life, his relationship with the band. It meant that or her, he existed because he knew Free Will. It was like being suddenly a famous people while being deprived of the right to exist as a person. He shook his head, a lump in his throat.

"I am sorry... I don't think this is a good idea." He managed to say, certainly not loud enough to drown out the crowd's hubbub. The girl snorted and exceeded him, mumbling something unpleasant. Castiel saw her make her way through the compact crowd and disappear.

"Fucking jerk!" Grumbled one of the girl who was sitting on the floor. She raised her barely begun glass of beer toward Castiel. "D'you want some? I almost didn't drink and you look like you need it."

The bandana girl nodded. Castiel blinked once or twice and ended up kneeling beside the two girls, grasping the glass with gratitude. The flat blond beer was scarcely fresh but enough to untie his throat. The girls were looking at him with interest.

"Nice tattoo that you have." Said the one with the red bandana.

"Thank you. And thank you for the beer. I'm Castiel."

"We suspected that." Joked the brown haired, the one who had hairs. "I'm Brooklyn, she's Kate." She said, helding out her hand. Castiel shook it and handed back her half-empty glass of beer.

"Do you allow me to offer you one after the show? I don't like being indebted."

Brooklyn shook her head. "Isn't that what rapist do at concerts? They offer drinks to girls, they drug them and then you never see them again?"

"Brook!" Kate protested. "Excuse her, I've been suspecting her of having a Tourette Syndrome for years, or an Asperger, she can't just _not_ say what she's thinking!"

Castiel smiled and sat cross-legged beside the girls. "It doesn't bother me." He said. "And I had no intention of drugging anyone! I would certainly not recognize drug if I had it in front of me."

Brooklyn raised her eyebrows. "The girl who left said you sleep in the tour bus... was she wrong?"

Castiel and Kate were staring at her, puzzled. "What?" She defended herself. "Don't tell me artists aren't given drug freely! Or that tour buses ain't full of it!"

Castiel smiled. The lights went out and the crowd began to scream, saving him from having to answer the embarrassing question of Brooklyn. They got up and he stood behind the girls, he was seeing over their shoulders, and anyway the show didn't really interest him. He had seen Dean sing dozens of times, sometimes for his only benefit. He had seen and heard Sam play drums countless hours. He knew exactly how Kevin stood behind his keyboard and when he would disappear behind the scenes to get his cello for the acoustic part of the concert. He had previously played Charlie's bass and knew how much it was heavy and that the shoulder strap notched her neck every night. She wore turtlenecks for over a year, or large nail clamps to avoid this.

He knew the group. Each of their songs even the unreleased. He loved them all. But he knew these people as human beings. They were his friends, not stars in his eyes (or yes, maybe a little, but not only). He liked to slip every night in the howling mob and soak up their enthusiasm. He loved to hear Dean talk to them about their dreams and hear them react as if some in the public had the revelation of their lives.

He liked to remember the very first time he had heard this group. He was seventeen years old and after a year of research he had found the identity of the man who had donated his bone marrow to save him. He had clicked on a web page and the music had gone off, startling him. He had nearly closed the tab, by reflex, but the sound was not unpleasant.

It was the very first time he had heard the voice of Dean Winchester. It was nothing special, it was low and soft and evoked much more a forest walk than the rage of hard rock for the young man that Castiel was at the time. He had closed his eyes for a second to hear the voice of someone who had unknowingly saved his life and had listened to the lyrics.

"_The Woman in White didn't mean any harm,_

_But she crushed my heart and broke my arms,_

_Took me to the river and tried to drown me._

_The Woman in White didn't mean any harm,_

_But I had to get rid of her before she kills me."_

Later, he had learned that it was Sam who had writen the song after the accidental death of his girlfriend Jessica. The words continued to touch him a lot. Half of the fans chose to see it as the story of a White Lady as in urban legend. The other half saw a sad love story and both interpretations were equally true.

Castiel had nicknamed the song "Leukemia" which made Dean cringe and Sam smile.

"As long as you like it, dude..." The younger had said when hearing the nickname the first time. "As long as it means something to you, everything suits me."

Unlike Dean, Sam was not possessive of his creations, he seemed genuinely happy if only people showed a little interest in his writings and compositions, the interpretation that people had mattered little to him.

They began nearly all their concerts with this song. Maybe it was a nod addressed to Castiel. Or maybe a way to remember that for the Winchester brothers, all had begun that day specifically. With the death of Jessica. Castiel closed his eyes and listened to the crowd scream or be silent depending on the nights, let himself be carried away by the heavy sound of the bass, the hypnotics keyboard notes, and Dean's voice singing softly.

"_I miss her like hell._

_She didn't mean to break me._

_But she did."_

When he opened his eyes, clapping along with the audience from habit, the girl with the red bandana was wiping her nose with her sleeve. He handed her a tissue that she took, a little surprised, in the wavering time between songs.

"I also cried the first time I heard it." He said. He had to shout to be heard above the noise of the crowd. He didn't dare to look at the bandana or allude to it.

"For you neither it's not a love story?"

Castiel shook his head. "Not even from afar."

She smiled before turning her attention to the scene where Sam was assuring background music while Dean and Charlie were adjusting their instruments to the next song.

It was for this type of exchange, for the strange communion between people linked only by music that Castiel attended the Free Will concerts. It was like to be alive, but together.


	2. Chapter 2 : Crossroads

**Warnings: **mention of past suicidal thoughts, mention of character death

* * *

**Chapter 2:** Crossroads ("This one is for Kate")

Two hours later, Castiel kept his promise and offered a new beer to Brooklyn while secretly sending a message to Dean. The bar he had chosen, a bit retired form the hall, was almost empty and the owner obviously didn't care about who his customers were. Brooklyn and Kate were chatting about the concert with big stars in their eyes when Dean slipped on the seat next to Castiel while making his whiskey slip on the table. He was still wearing his clothes show. Worn boots which one of them tripped over the young man's foot, a jean ripped at the knee, an adjusted white t-shirt and a shining leather jacket. That night, nobody had convinced him to outline his eyes of black and he wore only a single silver bracelet that Castiel wouldn't have guessed under the jacket sleeve if he hadn't helped him to attach it earlier in the evening.

"Good evening" He said with the smile he reserved for the fans and the journalists. He held out his hands toward the two girls in front of him. They stopped chatting immediately and shyly shook his fingertips. Castiel didn't understand how the singer's green eyes could still shine of excitement and joy after the show as himself was tired and hungry. This was undoubtedly the reason why Dean was the band leader, for his strange capacity to inspire admiration whatever he did, and his gift to do that with the kind of smiles that enlightened the day of the people he met. Whatever his state of tiredness, Dean didn't need to force himself to be kind and charming, to grant his whole attention toward the people whom he was speaking to like they were the most important persons of the world. That was what made him a leader and a star.

Castiel listened to him converse with the two girls, asking them if they would attend to other shows. He watched him raise his hand toward Kate's head and brush the bandana with his fingertips.

"Can I ?" He asked softly. She nodded obviously unable to say a single word and he slid the cloth of her nearly bald head, revealing a dirty blond fine down. She instinctively pulled her head in her shoulders.

Castiel had a lump in his throat and Brooklyn was looking at the bottom of her beer without saying anything. Dean was still staring at Kate and his was smiling softly. He stood up and leaned over to hug her over the table. Surprised, she awkwardly clung to his leather jacket that crunched under her fingernails.

Castiel did not hear what he whispered in her ear, but one way or another he knew it was exactly the words that Kate needed to hear. Dean had this amazing ability to know exactly what to say at the right moment to produce the desired effect in the people he talked to. Castiel was fascinated to see him blush every time a fan tried an approach, just to flirt with her the next second, a nod, a smile, a touch of fingertips on the cheek... Because this was exactly what was expected of him.

Once, Sam had asked him if he didn't bother to see his boyfriend (what a strange way to name him !) flirting with everyone. Castiel had smiled and shrugged. "The night, it's to me that he returns. So it does not bother me" he had responded.

Dean let Kate and took the bandana which he considered half a second before looking up to Castiel.

"You got a pen ?"

Castiel handed him a marker that he always carried with him for some time now and Dean scribbled something on the bandana he waved to dry the ink before reattaching it around the head of Kate.

"Do you need a ride home ?" he asked the girls.

They shook their heads. "Our motel is just nearby"

"Take care of you then"

Dean alawys looked after his comings in and out. He ostensibly took Castiel's hand and pulled the younger toward him to lead him out. The two girls hadn't stopped smiling.

The young man followed him stumbling, puzzled. "Are you aware of the fact that you just threw our relationship to the face of two fans ?" he grumbled before rushing into the cab with him.

Dean handed a paper on which he had written the address of their hotel to the driver, and leaned against the back of the seat.

"I don't think they'll tell anyone"

Castiel didn't think they would either, to be honest. A tinted window was separating them from the driver, so he took the opportunity to rest his head on Dean's shoulder. The leather jacket was cold under his cheek.

It was late when they presented themselves at the reception desk of the hotel.

"That was not exactly the kind of evening I had planned" the young man apologised while following the singer onto his room. Dean shrugged and closed the door behind him.

"There will be other evenings" he said.

The room was small and cozy. Someone (probably Sam) had brought Dean's suitcase, Castiel's backpack was already stored in the small wall cupboard set into the wall separating the bedroom from the bathroom. He sat on the bed and watched Dean toss the suitcase before opening it to fish a more comfortable outfit. He was remembering the time when the two brothers transported all their possessions in the trunk of an old car, sold since. When they had begun to have success and need to tour more and longer, he had offered the suitcase to Dean. It was in big black canvas originally but the singer had sewn patch big points each state in which he passed. There were still missing some of wich Hawaï and Alaska but he hoped to remedy this one day. Over the months to fold and unfold the machine, Dean had eventually acquired an impressive dexterity in suitcase storage term. He calculated exactly what he would need : a pair of jeans every five days, and as many t-shirts or shirts, socks and underwear that day between two hotels equipped with a washing machine. He had compartmented the suitcase in two, a clean part, and a dirty part plus a waterproof bag for toiletries.

Castiel would not have been surprised to discover did checklists to be sure not to forget anything (Kevin did and Dean had copied much of his travel routine on him).

Another bag, which remained in the tourbus, contained his stage clothes. Always the same. More or less threadbare jeans, white tops, various black leather jackets that Dean was quick to remove as soon that there was no more fan to see him.

Castiel looked at him undress, as always amazed by the way the man he had in front of him was changing as he got rid of his clothes as so many layers to his rockstar character. It was always the same ritual. First the jacket he slid from his shoulders before drawing the end of the sleeves to slide it down his tattooed arms. His shoulders sagged slightly as if they no longer see the point of staying tonic without the weight of the leather. Then the t-shirt he passed over his head, ruining his hair carefully studied, he then passed a hand through his short hair and scratched his head until they were sufficiently disordered to his liking. Castiel looked the tattoos disappear under an old Led Zeppelin shirt and the delicate way Dean smoothed the hem before unbuttoning his jeans and extricate one leg after the other after having removed the boots of a sharp movement foot.

It was always the same ritual at the end of which there wasn't generally much left of the star apart tattoos, piercings, and sometimes his eyes outlined in black. But not tonight. Tonight there was just a tired man who climbed on the bed next to Castiel and wrapped his arms around the waist of his lover, sighing contentedly, the head resting on his belly.

Castiel automatically put his hand on the skull of Dean, rolling the brown strands between his fingers to remove the last traces of gel.

"You think they'll come back ?" Dean asked softly, eyes closed.

"Brooklyn and Kate ?"

"That's their names ?"

"Yes. And yes, I believe they will come back."

Dean smiled. "They look like great girls. Brave ones."

Castiel nodded. For a while they were silent, Dean began to fall asleep. Castiel turned the TV on, looking in vain for something interesting to watch.

"Were you as thin and pale ? Than Kate ? I mean before."

Dean sat up on his elbows, his face close enough to Castiel's to completely hide him television at the footboard. The black haired nodded.

"I was worse. My mother must still have some photos of the period. I had lost all my hair and for two months I lived in a sterile bubble."

Dean sat on the bed completely, thoughtful, ran a hand through hair Castiel, twisting a lock of black hair between his fingers, trying to imagine his lover being bald.

"How did you hang on ?" He asked. "I think I would die if I was locked for months, if I was sick for so long, if I could see myself wither away slowly ..."

Castiel shrugged.

"Survival instinct. Humans are very difficult to kill, you know. As soon as you're told that you are doomed unless a miracle happens, you begin to pray for a miracle."

Dean smiled and crawled on the bed to get closer to him.

"I was your miracle then ?"

Castiel nodded. "You still are." He kissed him gently. Dean didn't kiss the same way when it was just him, or when he had slipped into the character of the leader of Free Will. Castiel often made fun of him by calling him "Fearless Leader" when the singer put on his black jacket, as if there were two different people in his body. Dean kissed him passionately and tenderly. His hands gently posed on the shoulders of Castiel went back on his neck where they settled for the time of the kiss before coming twitched in his hair or down along his arms, his back, hot and rough against his skin.

"Do you know why Titanic is my favorite movie ?" Castiel asked gently, playing with the cuffs of the shirt Dean, revealing the great black lily he had tattooed on his shoulder, surrounded by flames that ran it along his shoulder blade. The singer shook his head, his forehead pressed against his lover's.

"Because you're romantic like a girl?" He teased.

"Because Jack saved Rose, in every possible way, just like you saved me."

"I've done nothing Cas." Dean sighed, moving away from him to settle on his side of the bed, propping his shoulders against the wall, a pillow slid behind his back. "I gave my bone marrow when I was twenty-one, I didn't even know what I was doing. I remind you that it was just an excuse to skip class !"

It was a discussion they had already had several times and Castiel had never gone beyond that in their three-year relationship. But tonight, he saw the little red bandana and skinny arms Kate compared muscular arms tattooed Dean. He imagined them melted by disease, the faded ink, soiled by the treatments. He slipped his hand into Dean's who gently pressed it.

"Me, when I was twenty-one, I wanted to kill myself."

Dean had a violent jolt that shook the bed. "You never told me that."

Castiel shrugged.

"I thought I had a relapse. I woke up one morning burning with fever, vomiting everything I swallowed, I had not felt as bad for years. I went to the hospital and they kept me, made me pass a series of tests and examinations. I thought leukemia was returning."

"Three years after transplantation ?"

Castiel nodded. "It happens, it's rare but it happens. And I refused to live that again. The unbearable pain all the time, being sick all the time, doctors's pitying gazes, my mother who refrains from crying... I would rather have died than going through that again. I forbade everyone to give me the test results and I planned how I wanted to leave."

Dean had tight throat, he knew that the story ended well, it necessarily finished well as Castiel was there to tell, but it did not please him yet. The young man had closed his eyes, his head wedged against the wall as if seeing nothing made his memories more bearable. Or maybe he just wanted to avoid eye contact with Dean during his confession.

"And then ?"

"After I listened to "_Dad is on a hunting trip_". I knew it was you who sang, the person who had saved me the first time. This CD is one hour and thirty six minutes. I listened to it loop all night. I already knew every song by heart, but I imagine it must be in a certain mood for great revelations. I cried every time "_My soul for his_" began and also at every chorus of "_Hellhounds_". The next day, I asked the test results, took the treatment they gave me and I decided not to die, at least not untill I would have thanked you for my second life."

"Why did you never told me ?" Dean asked softly. Castiel shrugged.

"I don't know. It was never the right time, but ... tonight, seeing Kate, I hoped very much that you could save her as you saved me. That your music might give her the strength to wake up one more morning to continue to listen to it."

This time, Castiel had turned his eyes to him. He had that fixed and profound gaze that had made Dean uncomfortablethe first time, as if the blue eyes were probing too deeply his soul in search of something too great and heroic which the singer knew he was lacking. He wasn't a hero whatever his lover thought.

"I don't have this power Cas. My music is not good enough to save people."

"Yet it saved me."

"It saved you because you think you owe me your second life. It's different."

Castiel ran his hand on the bit raspy cheek of Dean as to convince or silence him.

"I only do songs. You're wrong if you think I'm some kind of hero to these people" He said again.

Castiel took his face in both hands to force him to look at him.

"Songs that saved me! And if they can save just one other person, just one Kate... Don't you think this is a good reason enough to be proud ?"

Dean couldnn't move his head, failling that, he lowered his eyelids. Castiel's thumb brushed the piercing above his cheekbone. "Listening to your songs taught me what free will, self-determination is. I still think that this is something for which you have to fight. And I still think that this is something you should be proud of. Something that is worth fighting."

Dean nodded slowly, sliding his rough chin in the palm of Castiel's hand to drop a kiss.

"Remind me that when I'll doubt again." He said softly.

"Count on me" Castiel said. He slipped under the sheets without bothering to take off more than his sneakers. Dean slid against his chest, his arms around the waist of the young man and put his head on Castiel's chest, just below the small scar near his collarbone. Years earlier, before being declared "in remission", the young man had tattooed a sentence whose real meaning had so far escaped the singer. "_Safe and Sound_". This meant more than simply "I am healed" wich was his response every time he was asked about it's meaning. It meant "I am healed and it is the music that saved me" Dean understood it only tonight. He closed his eyes, squeezing his lover against him, his head just above his heart so he could hear the steady beat between two inspirations of the younger. It was his favorite sleeping position for years, to the point that he sometimes had trouble getting to sleep when they were separated. The singer found a film he had already seen eight times on TV, put a hand on Castiel's shoulder and fell asleep shortly after him. He dreamed of a huge crowd jumping in the air to the beat of the music. It was his favorite dream.

##

There was always an adrenaline rush before going on stage, a kind of communicative energy that made them all want to hop on their way to the murmur of the crowd muffled by distance. Sam was playing with his drumsticks on every flat surface, sometimes on Kevin's shoulders until the young man, annoyed, pushes him back. Dean was cracking his knuckles until the other three were begging him to stop. Charlie was turning her plectrum in her fingers, pacing in the poorly lit backstage. Once she had tripped over a cable and had nearly start a fire. Kevin was reading. Generally the same book for a long time because he could never remember the pages that he had read through before going on stage. Their blood seemed hotter them every minute, and the excitement always won on them. They could perform on a large or a small stage, they could be only the four of them or being accompanied by an orchestra (it had happened only once and it was "awesome" in Dean's words), excitement was the same. As a sun which bloomed in the pit of their stomachs.

They always came on stage in the same order. First Sam who settled behind his drums and greeted Kevin with a continuous drum roll, a hit on a cymbal when the young man reached his keyboard. Fans loved Kevin, his big smile and the big square glasses he wore leaving the scene to relieve his tired eyes by the light spots. Both began to play a minute to find the rhythm on which Charlie came on stage. She was small compared to them and sometimes her coming was slightly unnoticed until a spot illuminates her red hair and green bass. Every fan knew exactly the name she had given to her custom-made instrument, but no one knew why. Often, when Sam and her were bored, they browsed on fan forums (their favorite pseudo was "Moose205") to read the most extravagant theories on Charlie's bass. As soon as the light went on, she began to play and at this time the public knew that everyone was ready for Dean's coming.

And it was usually not even the best moment of the evening. There were nights like that where everything went perfectly. They did not need to force themselves to connect with the public, there were nights when they felt driven by the grace and the music and everything was perfect.

They smiled at each other out of scene, returning all four together for the callback. On very rare occasions for a second callback.

They smiled and laughed in the backstage illuminated by the side of the room lights which came back on after the concert. Kevin left first to go on a walkabout while Sam supervised the removal and storage of his drums leaving only Dean and Charlie. The young woman played with her sore shoulders, massaging her neck.

"I take them and you eclipses ?" She kindly suggested.

Dean nodded and kissed her temple. "It doesn't bother you ?"

"We won't be at the hotel before an hour anyway, and you covered us enough Dorothy and me. We owe you that much."

It was a habit they had taken becoming famous. When Free Will consisted only of Dean and Sam, it was less difficult to retain their privacy for them. Now they had to cover each other alternately to keep for themselves what they considered as belonging to the intimate and that celebrity tended to remove from them.

They both eluded personal questions, and often, they made arrangements to occupy the fans for one of them can slip away quietly.

Dean waited for Charlie to be surrounded by a handful of fans to slip away discreetly and slip into a taxi.

The hotel room was oddly silent when he entered it. In the darkness, he discerned only the shape of Castiel sitting on the bed, dimly lit by the street light that passed through the half-open window.

"Is something wrong ?" He asked, approaching him. He knelt before his lover and put his hands on his thighs, trying to look in the same direction as him. Castiel had his phone between his knees and was sniffing uncontrollably.

"She's dead"

"Who ?"

"Kate... The bandana girl... She's dead !"

Castiel looked up at him and Dean saw that he had cried, was still crying in fact. He clenched his hands on his lover's thighs. He'd been unaware that Castiel had kept in touch with the young girl met a few weeks earlier. He could only imagine the exchange of SMS, and then, finally, after a long silence, the phone beeping or ringing. And probably an unknown voice on the phone or Brooklyn's announcing the death of Kate. It was tragic in itself, and Dean felt bad to take the news with as much detachment. But he didn't know the girl, not really. However, seeing Castiel cry that was what he endured least. It thankfully almost never happened. He straightened as he could to hold him in his arms despite their position, then he climbed on the bed and sat with him. Castiel clung to his jacket as a lifeline and was frankly sobbing now. As if he had waited for Dean to indulge in his sorrow. "She was only seventeen" he said between sniffles.

Dean had nothing to answer. No way to calm the distress of his lover. He was understanding it. Castiel couldn't watch the medical tv shows, cut the movies when a character found himself in hospital... and he was oddly attached to this kid he was talking about almost every day. Probably because he understood what she was crossing, probably because he recognized himself in her.

"It's okay..." Dean whispered, cradling him gently. "It's going to be ok..." He didn't know what else to say.

He waited until the sobs of the other are a little calmed down, just enough for him to hear his voice over the sound of his sniffles, and he began to sing. It was probably not the most appropriate song, but it was Castiel's favorite.

_"Crossroads told me the story_

_Of a man who sacrified himself for his son_

_I wish someone would love me_

_I wish someone would save me from my run_"

He felt the young man begin to relax, he imagined his eyelashes stooping on his cheek as he listened to the words he knew by heart. Castiel knew by heart every song of his. He found meanings that Dean had never had in mind when writing. Yet they were all true.

"_There is someone I love more than anything_

_I would trade my soul for his_

_I would go to hell swinging_

_Just to see one more smile of his_"

Castiel was still sniffling, but less loudly now and he didn't hung so much to Dean's jacket. He was listening to the sound of his clothes which slipped on his chest with each breath and to the sound of his low voice in his chest. It was like falling asleep and hearing the sounds of the outside world distorted and incomprehensible. He didn't understand the words, but he knew them by heart so much that it seemed they were from him. It was just a song that would not bring back the dead, but it was all what Dean had to offer at the moment.

"_But I'm just a guy_

_With only my shattered soul to sell_

_And I'm crying in my bloody hands at night_

_I'm not the one who'll make you smile again_"

Castiel began to hum the last verse together with Dean, he had a slightly broken voice through because of his tears, but neither cared. Gradually the comfort and warmth of the singer's arm calmed the young man, cradling him away from his grief as if he had the power to fight all the pain of the world. Castiel tended to believe that it was true, that as long as Dean would be there to comfort him, he could endure anything.

"_Crossroads now tells a story_

_'bout a man who traded his soul for his soulmate_

_And they wander together happily_

_Crossroad demon gave them one year to share_"

Dean stopped singing, just listening to Castiel's scratchy voice who whispered the last words.

"_I wish someone would love me that much. I wish someone would save me_"

It was not much. Nothing but a song written years earlier and on which Castiel had put his own interpretation, his own feelings.

But it was all what Dean had to offer and curiously, it was enough. A few minutes later Castiel was asleep, tight against his lover as a confident kitten.

##

The next evening, Free Will performed in a smaller room than the day before, an almost intimate committee where they felt more comfortable. Dean searched Castiel with his eyes but didn't find him, yet he knew he was in the room. He smiled at a few girls in the front row. One of them had the symbol of the band tattooed on the wrist, a pentacle in a sun. What drove people to do that ? His tattoos all meant something important for him. The lily on his shoulder, it was his mother dead so long ago that today he needed a photo and a brief effort to see her face. The rose that wrapped around his left wrist ? Sammy. The crossed revolvers in the small of his back ? He avoided to think of it. But that girl, why get a tattoo of a rock band symbol ? A symbol invented caught in two different books in a library in California years earlier.

Maybe Castiel was right. Maybe what he was doing was important, at least for one or two person. Maybe it was more than distraction. After all, if Sam and he told their pathes in their songs, why refuse the idea that they find echoes in other people? They were not so special.

All these thoughts jostled in his head at the same second, making the smile. Behind him, Sam called him to order with a clearly annoyed drumroll. He perched himself on a high stool that had been brought to him, stalled his guitar on his lap and leaned toward the microphone.

"This one is for Kate"

He cleared his throat while behind him Sam began a haunting rhythm.

"_What doesn't kill me should try harder,_

_What wants to burry me should think better,_

_'cos I'm a warrior,_

_I save people, I save lifes, I'm a hero_"

He had his eyes closed, impregnated with music. He imagined Castiel in the room, his eyes closed as he always did when he heard him sing, and he smiled. Others person closed their eyes, slowly swaying to the rhythm of the song carried by Charlie's bass which predominated. They would ask who was Kate. The next day, Sam and Charlie would find on forums tens of assumptions. The most common would probably be that Kate would be an acquaintance of the group. Or even his girlfriend. Brooklyn would probably understand. He didn't know if she was in the audience or if she would hear of this dedication someday, but it was not really for her that he was singing it, beside he didn't know if he was addressing to Castiel or to himself.

"_Been through hell and back,_

_So pull the trigger,_

_Try and hit me harder,_

_But one day I'll be back,_

_I save people, I save lifes, I'm a hero_"

He smiled, thinking between two words, that for once, he wasn't playing the Fearless Leader that he represented on stage. He was Dean Winchester and sang his own feelings, not those of a stage character.

"_I'm a freaking hero_"

He was really thinking that way. And it was thanks to Castiel.


	3. Chapter 3 : Stray Cat

**Warnings:** Swearing, mention of character death

* * *

**Chapter 3:** Stray Cat

Seeing Charlie put on her stage clothes was one of Dorothy's favorite sight.

First this implied that the bassist was naked, wich in itself was one of the good things of life (about tied with bacon and sunrises on Monument Valley). And this required from the young woman incessant comings and goings between her suitcase and the bathroom. First in underwear then in pants, skirt, pants again before she starts to put on a t-shirt or shirt, get changed, and start all from the beginning again. This amused Dorothy who could recognize her clothes to touch, to dress in the dark and still feel perfectly at ease in all circumstances. It was not something to which she attached a disproportionate importance, and to drive a bus all day in, she did not usually need to make outfit efforts. But to Charlie, the challenge was different.

Being labeled "The Group Girl" automatically put her away in a certain category of people she wanted to separate herself from, or at least not to end up trapped in. Often, reading one of their interviews or an article about the group, she sighed she had not signed on to be their feminine contrast.

She had fully explained to Dorothy why she loved playing bass. This was not only because of the sound, of the deep vibrations of the instrument that seemed to echo all the cells of the body. It was also because of its place in music.

"You see, the guitar is the guitar is the melodic line that speaks to the head. It's the one which tells the song. The drums, it takes you to the chest, it beats inside you as your heart. This is what makes the ground shake and resonate through your body. The bass... The bass speaks to you deep in the belly, it's the one who twists your guts even when you do not pay attention, it is that which maintains the whole song, giving it depth and background. You don't see it and yet it is essential."

"So the bass is the sexual part of the music ?" Dorothy had asked in an extremely serious tone. Charlie had nodded vigorously. It was a year ago at the start of the tour, the first time they had shared a hotel room. Shortly before they had begun to share the same bed.

Charlie took great care of her image and tonight she had a message to deliver. The Internet, where she killed most of her time between concerts, regularly informed her of the most idiotic laws of the states they crossed. She shared it with them at any time of day or night and that morning she had stopped on the prohibition for women to wear trousers in Tucson. Dorothy was convinced that this law had a logical origin but Charlie had not wanted to hear about it. She had decided to apply the law litteraly and nobody in the world except maybe Dean could not have made her change her mind. Sam and Kevin had tried without success until the drummer takes his friend's shoulders.

"After all" Had he said "Nobody will complain to see a half-naked girl on stage."

Charlie had thrown her PC mouse in his face, laughing. But she had held to her decision and therefore was walking around in the hotel room wearing only a black bodysuit and fishnet stockings. All leaving relatively little to the imagination or to any underwear, fact that Dorothy should have not find so attractive. Lying on the bed, the woman was wondering if Charlie's birthday could be a sufficient pretext for an unrestrained sex party later in the evening. Not that they needed a pretext now, but still.

Someone knocked on the door and Charlie yelled from the bathroom where she had obviously blinded one of her eyes with her mascara brush. Dorothy chuckled and got up to open to Dean and Castiel, the first carrying in his arms a large wrapped box with a pink paper that would displease the bassist.

"Who's this ?"

"Batman and Robin." Dean replied by putting the gift on a twin bed of the room. "You two manage to fit in oone of those things ?" He asked to Dorothy. The young woman shrugged.

"And you ?" She retorted.

"Oh yes !" Castiel replied when a second shot at the door announced the arrival of Sam and Kevin, carrying, them a bottle of champagne.

Charlie emerged from the bathroom, a very red eye being too rubbed after the macara attack.

"Happy Birthday !" Sam shouted opening his arms, the champagne bottle passing dangerously close to Castiel who dodged awkwardly. Charlie smiled and put one of her arm around the waist of the young man.

"We don't wait 'til after the show ?"

Kevin shook his head before taking the bottle from Sam. "We'll start over again after. It's been a while since we didn't play without being worse for wear"

"Drunk Kev, the word you're looking for is drunk !" Sam intervented dropping himself on the bed beside Dorothy and the gift box. He was shirtless under a brown pullover with the Stanford emblem and was wearing jeans so old it should had been sold before he was even born. From under the bed he pulled Charlie's suitcase to go through her jewels and accessories until he found a leather collar he handed to Dorothy so she could tie it on him.

"There's only the leash missing" Dean teased. Sam had a huge grin.

"Are you offering ?"

"You're disgusting" The older sighed sitting on the opposit bed, watching with a worried look Kevin's tribulations who was attempting to open the bottle. "And you, you're going to be dead sick" He told Charlie watching her naked legs.

"I'll wear a jacket" She replicated sitting beside him to unwrap her gift. Through the fishnet holes, he could see her nails painted in red and the silver anckle chain she hadn't put off since he knew her. A gift from Castiel two years ago. A little lucky angel charm dangling permanently.

The young woman emitted a long whistle opening the box, removing the tissue paper covering the shiny red leather boots. She turned them in her hands, enjoying the length of the rod, the smell of new leather and the shoes's color of fresh blood. They were all watching, enjoying the smile that slowly drew on her lips.

"You just gave me Batwoman's shoes ?"

"Yeup" Dean said.

"Made to measure" Castiel added.

"Based on one of Kevin's drawing" Sam said, handing her a pair of socks that Charlie pulled feverishly before dragging her feet in the boots, not really surprised to find them perfectly fitting. She did not know by what miracle they had managed to find the measures of her feet (and strongly suspected Dorothy being involved !) but she didn't questionned herself for too long. The boots were perfect and she refused therefore to remove them. Kevin handed her the bottle of champagne she took a swig from the neck before handing it to Dean.

"Happy Birthday, Red" Dorothy said by placing a kiss on her cheek.

It was not the real date of Charlie's birthday, they all knew it. But it was the day that she had adopted as the one where she was born into her second life, the most important to her. They respected this. And tonight, it was a special evening. This would not be a concert like any other.

As they went along, it became a habit to do something special during their respective birthdays.

She remembered the day, exactly two years ago when she had met them.

It was raining that day. This was why the song that closed exceptionally the acoustic session began with a stormy noise.

"_I found a stray cat wandering outside in the street,_

_She hissed at me and bared her teeth ,_

_She clawed at my skin and stuck at my feet,_

_Like she wouldn't let go of me_"

Two years earlier.

The guy had chose a bad day to attempt to approach her. He had taken a bag in the face and had walked away, holding his face with both hands, shouting insults.

It had begun to rain. She had lost the hood of her coffee to go now cold and disgusting. She threw it into a trash can and wrapped her arms around her, she had no umbrella and besides, she had sore feet. She ignored the ringing of her cell for the fifth time. If she had bothered she would have been able to trace the path of the rumor of her dismissal. From her boss's secretary at the coffee machine, from a colleague to another, from a gossip to a talkative... gradually Charlie Bradbury's nervous breakdown would become a legend. The kind of horror story told to new employees to teach them to keep within the framework and not making waves.

She had not realized she had leaned against a wall or that she had let herself slip to the ground, her head in her hands in the relative safety of a roof panel that protected her a bit from the rain. She would have give anything for that day to finish.

"Hey ? Are you okay ?"

She raised her head ready to strike again but the man who watched her was crouched close to her and held out his arm to protect her under a large pink umbrella. She wiped her nose, shaking her head and, curiously, giggled, looking up toward the pink spot lined with frilly which hid the black sky to her. The other smiled, causing his very green eyes to wrinckle. He was nibbling a silver ring he had in his lower lip, looking puzzled.

"What are you doing all alone in the rain ?"

"I don't know" She answered. She believed he would think she was drugged or drunk when it was only five o'clock in the afternoon. But he just sighed and extended a hand holding a crumpled and soaked paper bag.

"Come inside, you're making me feel cold, wet like this"

Years later when she was asked how all had begun, she always thought back to that moment. The exact moment she had sold her soul to Dean Winchester as she accepted his hand to help her up. The only person from the street to have stopped near a wet girl to offer her a refuge.

She had followed her inside the building against which she was leaning against. She had a while to understand that it was a recording studio and it was mostly by seeing a guy with long hair playing drums behind glass she had made the connection. There was a control console under the large window in the room where the man took her as well as a sofa, armchairs and a coffee table very close to each other behind the seat of the technician who was recording the sound of the drums. Two brown boys were sitting around the table overflowing with reliefs of food and coffee cups.

"I have company !"

"A strait cat again ?" One of the boys asked. He had beautiful blue eyes and seemed a little "out of" the studio with his barely wrinkled suit whose he had removed the jacket, distinctly laid on the back of his chair.

"Nope, just someone who'd need a hot thing to drink." Replied the man with green eyes. Charlie felt uncomfortable and her wet clothes began to make her cold. "We wouldn't have a towel or something?" He asked, still tucking his wet umbrella.

"It's a studio here, not a daycare !" The technician grumbled removing his headphones, turning in his chair to shoot a stern look on the three others. He stood up and held out his hand to the girl. "I'm Bobby Singer"

"Charlie. Charlie Bradbury." She articulated laboriously squeezing his hand.

The blue-eyed boy handed her a coffee which she vaguely wondered where it emerged from. "I Castiel, I'm here as a tourist."

"Kevin." Introduced himself the second boy in the room raising a hand. He had asian features, a spacer in one ear and a cello carefully stored in a case next to him at the end of the couch.

"Dean." Said the man with green eyes pointing himself from the thumb. "The moose behind the glass is my brother, Sam."

"The moose says fuck you !" Sam grumbled coming out of the recording room, stretching his long arms above his head to be able to hang on to the door frame and smiling at Charlie.

That was how she had met the four boys. On a rainy day. And she had never left.

"_I found a stray cat, far away from home_

_She curled on my pillow and ate my food,_

_She told us stories of a faraway kingdom_

_Like we were the only ones who understood_"

Kevin's cello began to reel off his deep and slow notes, accompanied by Sam's muffled drum which maintained a steady, hypnotic rhythm. Charlie clenched fingers on her borrowed guitar. She was not used to the instrument, and had only learned to play the necessary bars for this song, the weight of her bass was lacking, a bit like if her balance point had been removed. Two years earlier after eating donuts, having a little dried and drinking coffee, she had attended her first recording session. Without anyone had asked questions. Without even Bobby asks why a girl dripping wet from the rain had let herself invite by a stranger. As if it was normal for them to retrieve stray cats found in the rain. As if it was normal that Sam had put an arm around her shoulders two hours later and asked her if she knew where to sleep at night.

"She won't sleep with you, pervert !" Kevin had grunted, throwing him the bag of donuts empty and crumpled into a ball to the face.

"I'm not ... I have an apartment in fifteen minutes by." Charlie had mumbled.

"Need a taxi ?" Sam looked concerned.

Seeing him the first time, she had recoiled. He was very tall and the drums alone could not be responsible for the muscles in his arms. He was wearing a white tank top that had seen better days and showed an impressive amount of tattoos. All his left arm was a huge bunch of colorful flowers. She had thought that someone wearing as proudly as many colors and petals could not be inherently evil.

She had shook her head. "It's gonna be okay"

"That's what people say when they feel bad but do not dare talk about it." Sam had said.

And Charlie began to cry. Like that, suddenly, without harbinger, plunging the entire studio in a awkward silence only broken by the sound of her sobs. She had felt an arm go around her and Sam approach his chest to rock her. None of the five men had said anything.

In retrospect, it was probably because each of them knew there were no words to put on a great distress. No word of comfort that was effective. And that didn't matter, after all, why she was crying. She hadn't return home that night. Three days later, she was still wandering in the small apartment of the Winchester, in jeans loan from Kevin wich was still too big for her, and an old shirt of Dean which could have been a dress for her. A month later, a bass was delivered to the apartment she had finally return. The card that came with it was signed by Dean, Sam and Kevin.

"If you need a job, we need a bassist"

"_Stray cat had a lot of demons,_

_She was fighting alone and the rain was pouring,_

_We nursed her into oblivion,_

_Until we could see her smile and hear her laughing_"

The song was soft and rhythmic, Dean singing eyes closed, automatically playing the simple chords that accompanied the words evoking the time they had spent together.

That first evening when she had refused to talk to them about her problems. After all, one does not entrusted to foreigners like this. The first days when she had refuged herself, in the early morning on the Winchester's couch, a bass on her knees she had began to play muted so she wouldn't wake them. She had only stopped by seeing Dean coming into the living room smiling. His eyes were dwarfed by sleep and his hair were tousled.

"Who taught you ?"

"No one" She replied with her head bent on the instrument. "I found the bass of my favorite band on Ebay a few years ago... I took some courses, the rest... I've always said bass sounds soothe the soul."

"Does that work ?"

"A bit, yes"

He had made her coffee and toast. She had wondered if he did that with all the stray cats he encountered. She had only had her answer much later as a nod from Kevin. "Only those who are special. The other cats, he kicks them."

A long time after with the help of many beers, the two brothers had asked her what had happened the day they had met. She had told them, always with the help of alcohol. Told the car accident that took her father and plunged her mother into a coma when she was twelve. Told the wandering during her late teens and how she would sneak into the hospital to read stories to her mother. Told the day she had decided to end the medical assistance. How she had woken up that morning with the sensation of drowning in her own saliva. How a small remark from her boss had made her explode. How she had been fired the day of the death of the last person on earth she cared about.

They hadn't taken her in their arms this time. They had handed her a new beer and then another until she was drunk, then they had taken her back to the tourbus and had tucked her in her bunk. They had never talked about it again because some secrets, some pains aren't to share. Yet, often, one or the other clutched her shoulder when they saw her sad or thoughtful.

"_Stray cat is like the little sister_

_I never wanted_

_Stray cat made me wonder_

_Is life even real ?_"

Dean had refused she heard the song before tonight and he had been wrong. Because she wanted to laugh and cry. Wanted to take him in her arms and call him an idiot. She wanted him to shut, to not reveal it to any fans and yet, there was nothing more important than sharing it with them. Free Will was a blended family made of broken people who supported each othe. People who listened, who came to their concerts were like them somehow. Although the lyrics were vague, and probably wouldn't evoke much to the fans. But the four knew who she was, the meaning behind every word of Dean and the smiles he threw to her between verses.

"_She plays queen and crowned me king_

_Of a faraway kingdom which I know nothing_

_And she thinks we're all wariors and heroes_

_When I though we were all survivors and zeros_"

Charlie smiled, tried to focus on her guitar chords but she was too filled with emotion to know if she was playing correctly or not. She had removed her headset and her hearing protections to hear Dean singing. She was close enough to discern the air rattling in his throat when he breathed, the rustling of his mouth on the mic, yet she heard his voice amplified a hundred times by the speakers around them. It was like two distinct people were talking about her to a few hundreds of strangers.

"_She has demons sitting on her shoulder_

_Just like me_

_But she fight everyday harder_

_And she's stuck with me_

_Because I love her_

_And I hope she loves me_."

The last cello notes died away half a second after Dean's voice. Nobody in the room could see Charlie's eyes even though the light was pointed at her, but everyone could see that she was crying. She had stopped playing after missing several notes but nobody had paid attention. Sniffing, she bent over to pick up the microphone.

"I love you" She said as clearly as she could. She had no time to put the microphone away before sniffing again, triggering some laughter in the audience. Dean nodded gently, smiling.

"I know" He whispered just loud enough for only her to hear.

When they left the stage, in the backstages, she hugged him in her arms.

For a long time.

##

"Hey" Sam said tending a helping hand to retain an amp that threatened to fall from the sack truck on which it was.

"Hey" Replied the girl with a big smile. She had long eyelashes and very pronounced cheekbones and very high. "Thank You"

Sam smiled and gently pushed the amp to stabilize it. "Are you new ?"

She nodded. "Obviously"

He held out his hand. "I'm Sam"

"Madison" She answered, shaking his hand. "Any idea where these babies are supposed to go, sir ?" She asked, pointing the crates from the chin. Sam told her in which hardware truck to store the amp then gave her specific instructions on the handling of his drums. Madison smiled gently watching him unscrew a cymbal from its shelf and place it in a storage box.

"Is it precious ?"

Sam nodded touching the bass drum from the tip of the phalanges. "It cost me two years of savings, the first who damage it..." He didn't finish his sentence, just shook his head and smiled at the young woman. "I'll show you how to take care of it, the other roadies already know the procedure. Then I promise I won't get under your feet, it's just that ... I care about it."

Madison nodded. She almost regretted not having a notebook on her to write down instructions, but remove the drums did not require special diploma and the major advice (repeated at least thirty times by Sam) was to treat it with gentleness.

"It's silly you tap on it for hours every day !"

"This is why you need to treat it carefully when I'm not there." Sam smiled. "And there's no "sir" here. Civilities are reserved for opera and classical music"

Madison chuckled unscrewing one of the attachments of the little boxes Sam had designated as the "toms". "The rock does not tolerate courtesy ?"

"Courtesy ? It's no longer fashionable since the Middle Ages ! It's even been years since I've heard that word." Sam said, amused.

She looked at him puzzled. She did not expected him to place courtesy in the good time, nor even him to know exactly where the term came. He smiled and leaned over a box of equipment, arms crossed in front of him.

"What ? That surprises you that a guy who makes music has also an education ?" He teased, rolling the Floor Tom from front to back.

She felt herself blush from embarrassment without any good reason and looked down. "It shouldn't but... Yeah, a little."

Sam just smiled, his long hair fell before his eyes and he had to watch her fight with a pedal's attachment through his wisps.

"Do I have to conclude that the rock is for coarse characters ?" Madison asked.

Sam started to laugh. He had dimples and a little childish glint in his eyes that made her smile.

"And the cheeky girls." He replied, nodding.

"I guess neither of us is really in his propper place then ?" She put the attachment in place and Sam told her the order in which store the toms.

"We probably all have a reason to want to be elsewhere than in our place." He said when they had closed the last box.

Madison smiled. "The grass is always greener elswhere, and all that stuff ?"

He nodded. "I like the color of the grass here. I don't know if it's my place, but it's not worse than elsewhere."

"I agree."

The agitation had calmed down around them, they piled the last boxes in a hardware truck. They were almost alone except for a few roadies who shared a pack of beer further. At the end of the parking lot, under a lamp, Charlie and Kevin were talking with fans whom one had a European flag around shoulders.

"You should go." Madison said by designating them from the chin. He lowered his eyes at her, waiting for her to develop her thought "This is your place."

He smiled and walked away towards the circle of people under the streetlight. He stopped a few steps further and turned back.

"Madison ?"

She was in the same place, hands in the pockets of her jacket and was looking at him moving away. Even from afar, he saw her lift the chin to signify that she heard.

"Thank you for the conversation."

"It was a pleasure." She said, pretending to reverence, arms outstretched as if she was stretching the folds of an imaginary dress around her. That made him laugh, he joined her in three great strides and, taking her hand, raised it to his lips without taking his eyes off her. It was dark but he could have sworn she was blushing.

"My Lady..." He greeted her. Then he walked away toward Kevin and Charlie without turning back.

##

It did not become a habit right away, to discuss like this at the end of concerts, but from time to time they did. It was always nice, always pleasant. One evening as another, Sam advised the sports bag Madison put on the last box of material and raised his eyebrows.

"Laundry." She replied laconically.

"We're in the middle of the night! And the trucks won't wait for you."

"There is a laundromat not far from here, I have a book and I'll take the night bus that passes in three hours to get to Atlanta. Perfect timing."

Sam frowned, raising the material crate to slide it in the truck as if it weighed nothing.

"There will be one at the hotel tomorrow."

Madison rolled her eyes in annoyance. "I wanna be alone for a while. You might like it, but the life in community starts to weigh upon me."

He took the bag from her hands. "Where's your laundromat ?"

"What are you doing ?"

"I'm coming with you. It's simply out of question for me to let a girl alone at night in an unfamiliar town. We'll take the night bus together."

Madison frowned and tried to regain her bag. Unsuccessfully.

"Sam ! "

"This is not negotiable!" He warned her. She followed him into the tourbus where he retrieved his jacket and briefly explained to Dean where he was going. The singer looked away from a spaghetti meal that seemed to require his whole attention and winked at them.

"Don't forget the love glove." He simply said.

Sam rolled his eyes and sighed and took Madison's shoulders to lead her off the bus. She tried again to regain her bag but he held it above his head so high she couldn't even touch it by putting herself on tiptoes.

"Sam!" She protested "What you do not understand in the sentence "I wanna be alone?""

"The possibility of finding you slaughtered by a maniac tomorrow morning. I'm coming with you that's all. I will do as if I did not exist but I'll stay with you !"

She continued to protest all along the way to the laundry but Sam returned her bag only once they were against the washing machine. She charged the machine and retrieved a book in an outside pocket of the bag before sitting down next to Sam who began to read over her shoulder. It was a love story and he had nothing better to do. She quickly get used to question him with a growl before turning a page to make sure he had ended up at the same time. They read in the monotonous and comfortable noise the washing machine under the harsh lighting neons.

When the spin cycle ended, Madison rose to transfer her clothes in the dryer and then returned to the adventures of her hero whom she had entrusted the care to Sam. Nothing in the world would have made him confess, but after an hour of reading he had a vital need to know if George would finally overcome his amnesia and remember that he loved the beautiful Ann to insanity.

"Wait ..." He came back to the page that Madison had just turned, without really believing what he had just read."She's gonna marry Grant ?"

"Yes. To retrieve the legacy !"

"What a bitch !"

Madison laughed, unable to resist to Sam's disgruntled and amused expression.

"Admit that you love it !"

"No ! No, I would not say that, but... He took the book from her hands and pointed to the dryer. "Get your clothes I'll read the rest aloud to you." Madison smiled as she rose and retrieved a load of her clothes she carelessly threw on the table that adjoined the benches while Sam quickly turned the pages by reading key passages. Once he looked up on her to make sure she was listening. She was holding up a blue satin panties and she saw him blush. It was a lovely and unexpected sight. This large tattooed body in leather pants, sitting with his elbows on his knees in a launderette, holding in his hand a book with an unequivocal front cover. And was blushing at the sight of a panty.

She had done it on purpose, a little revenge for disturbing her tranquility, and she continued to expose her lingerie until everything was carefully folded and stored in the sport bag. At this moment, George, at the wedding of Ann remembered the night they had spent together shortly after their first meeting.

"You skipped the sexy passage" She accused.

Sam nodded. "You'll read it yourself." He retorted holding her back the book. The weather was cool compared to the stifling heat of the laundry and he was happy to slip into the bus sheltered from the cold when they reached the bus station. He stretched his legs in the deserted way while Madison settled, shoulder wedged against the window in the seat next to his and reopened the book.

"You act like a tough guy outside and you can't even read a sex scene aloud.." She grumbled reading the pages he had skipped.

"I'm not acting tough, it's only the opinion that people have about me because I play some rock." He defended himself.

"It's more the tattos that are misleading, not really the job" She said. It was strange as with him the flimsiest conversations always deviated on more psychologiacl thoughts, obscured by all the things they didn't know yet about the other but that they both seemed quite unable to not mention it.

"It's nothing but a little ink, people who stop at that are idiots. It represents me, but it doesn't define me." Sam said raising the armrest between them to lay his head on Madison's knees. She cringed a little and he straightened immediately, apologizing.

She shook her head. "No, it's ok."

He laid back and closed his eyes. "Read" He demanded.

"You already read that passage."

"Read even though."

The bus drove off, covering a little embarrassed throat scraping from Madison. She forced herself to ignore the young man's head resting on her thighs, his shoulder which touched her hip and the desire she had to pass his hand through the drummer's hair to see if they were as soft as they looked like. She began to read with a voice as monotone as possible, as if images didn't come to disturb her vision in regular intervals. Images where Sam predominated but not his clothes. Somewhere deep inside her, she thanked the nature to never have anyone with the power of telepathy. Or empathy because otherwise he would have felt the warmth that overwhelmed her with every jolt of the bus, with each of his movements, with each of his smiles when she stumbled over a word or stammered. He had closed his eyes, his long eyelashes were shadows on his cheeks, and he fell asleep gradually. For a long time she did not dare move for fear of waking him and eventually she slipped into sleep after setting the alarm her cell phone twenty minutes before the scheduled time of arrival in Atlanta.

They awoke at the next stop and didn't manage to fall back to sleep despite the soothing hum of the engine and the smooth scrolling of streetlights they counted like so many bright sheeps. Sam had removed his jacket and folded his arms across his chest, he saw the night sky between two streetlights whitened his vision for a few seconds.

"Do they all have a meaning ?" Madison asked, patting the tattoos on his forearm. "Or is it just that you like make piercing your skin with needles ?"

Sam laughed as low as he could to not disturb other sleepy passengers. "Is this a roundabout way of asking me if I like feel pain ?"

"You didn't answered my question."

"Neither you did." He smiled. He stopped looking at the sky for a moment just to see her rolling her eyes sighing. "I'm not a needle fan. There are some I just found beautiful, and others... let's just say that there are things that exprime better with a permanent drawing than with a four minute song."

"Like _The Woman in White_ ?"

"How do you know that ?" he grunted straightening himself and sitting. He ran a hand over his face as if to chase tiredness.

Madison shrugged. "Your brother looks at you when he sings it, every night. And you have her name tattooed in white on your phalanges."

Sam instinctively clenched his fist to shirk his fingers from the young woman's look. "I don't want to talk about it." He said caressing with his thumb the almost invisible marks on his knuckles. Four luminous letters under black light at the exact spot where the rings would be accommodated by an American fist if he still had one. He felt vaguely trace of ink under his skin as a persistence of a life that was not anymore for a long time.

Madison opened her mouth as if to say something but immediately closed it. She took the book and put it between them so that they could complete their remaining fifty pages and find out if Ann and George would end up together.


	4. Chapter 4 : Reckless

**Warnings:** Swearing, drunkness, physical violence, mention of past drug use

* * *

**Chapter 4:** Reckless

The music began with drums, the kind of tempo all in setbacks that made Dean wonder how Sam came to uncoordinate his members so easily. There was almost no guitar in the piece. Only the drums, the bass and some synth chords that Kevin tinkled away with a concentrated look.

_"It's a reckless mess_

_That came one day_

_Bearing a stone heart in his chest_

_And a rock he carved day after day"_

It was the first song of the acoustic part, the one that everyone listened because it was the first time in forty five minutes that the people in the pit could afford to breathe. The one where Dean, having almost nothing to play, could take the time to watch the crowd and to catch some fan's eyes. It was also one of those who spoke the most to each of them.

Sam had written it for Kevin and Dean had composed it for him although the young man never made a reference to that. Yet, they all identified themself with the lyrics and Charlie, her, identified herself with the bass line wich was by far her favorite. Dean smiled, clenching his hand around the mic that he took from its stand to stride across the scene, briefly holding Kevin's shoulder with his free hand.

_"He ran away,_

_From the life he always wanted ,_

_Turned out in the end_

_Sometimes what you want, you can't get"_

There was no reason that anything goes wrong at Atlanta. This is probably why everything began to go wrong that night. The concert had been fine without being exceptional and they were just tired and a little dazed by the noise when they left the scene.

Of course it had to be a hall without an internal backyard. Of course some fan had waited here, but that was the good part of the night. Of course it had to be that night and not another that Sam had ended up shirtless on stage. Of course it was the night he had lost a bet against Dorothy and therefore was wearing the young woman's earings at the navel instead of his usual piercing. Of course it was the night Dean was wearing so much khol and silver jewels that Castiel had compared him to Lawrence of Arabia. What had been a compliment in his lover's mouth was suddenly striking him right in the stomach when he saw the black form of his father's car.

There weren't much Impala 1967 in as good condition, and Dean would have recognized this one even in a Chevrolet convention. He hadn't the time to find a way-out, or to warn Kevin and Charlie who were taking photos with fans.

"Boys."

The low voice of hs father was still exactly the same five years later. But this time he wasn't screaming, wich put Dean more uncomfortable than he would have confessed. It was easier to face John Winchester when he was screaming, when the man gave him a reason to dig his heels in, to fight or run away. It was easier to face him when he was obviously wrong than when he adressed them with the concerned look of a good father trying to get his sons out of trouble.

There should be a King in Hell who had Dean's name on his blacklist because it was at this moment that Castiel came up beside him. He hadn't seen him arrive, nor heard, and his first reaction was to push him away. John frowned.

"So that's what you're sleeping with these days ?"

The tone was calme, almost polite. Dean vaguely heard the horrified exclamations from some fans who had heard the remark. He knew Castiel well enough to guess his frown without even looking.

"You should go home." Sam said nicely to the fans while pushing them back, keeping his eyes on them until they were out of earshot. Kevin and Charlie were looking at John with curiosity. "Hello dad."

"Sam."

Father and son were gauging each other. Sam was far away from the child who had left the family home in Lawrence, almost eight years ago, a scholarship for Stanford and a backpack for only possession. When they were alone, when they had drunk too much, Dean used to say that that Sam was thousand dollars of tattoos from here. Sam retorted that he was dozens of mishaps from there and they were both right.

They both knew that John saw nothing else in Sam that a promising kid who had gone wrong. He had repeated it to them enough. Or at least he had hit his younger quite often with it so that he had slamed the door on the promise to never to return.

John's words, the two brothers still heard them. "I'm going to pay for my son to become a layabout who claims to save the world !"

Often when Sam was drunk or just feeling sad (the two sometimes going along) he was muttering things about being a layabout who didn't even saved the world. And Dean had nothing to respond to that.

John, him, hadn't changed. The same military cut, the same square shoulders, the same threadbare boots. Everything about him had the same look as his car: old, worn, but maintained with an almost compulsive excessive care. Sam heard him grind his teeth while examining him, his father's gaze up from his boots on his pants with holes, glued to his legs through sweat, to the earring with blue tassels on his navel. He saw him frown when he saw his tattos. He could almost follow the flow of his father's thoughts. God how far the phoenix tattooed all over his right side and disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans went down ? What was that all these flowers ? When John squinted to try to read the sentence that stretched from one shoulder to the other along his collarbone, Sam made a step forward to facilitate his task.

"Beware the nice ones." John grumbled. " What does that mean ?"

Sam shrugged, resisting the urge to fold his arms to avoid attention from his father. He had not intention to do him the pleasure of being uncomfortable or affected by his judgment.

"That the bad one isn't always the one you'd think."

It was far, really far to be the real meaning of this tattoo, but Sam knew that John would have use the real meaning to blame him, and he hadn't the intention to help him with criticizes wich would eventually come anyway. John turned his look toward his older son as if he was hoping that he would be a lesser disappointement than his youngest. He wasn't. Dean's piercings sparkled under the lights of the parking lot, his leather jacket certainly smelled alcohol and smoke, his frayed jeans inhumanly tight on his legs had to give him a clean image to haunt the nightmares of his soldier father. He didn't care. Or rather, he wanted to throw it all in his face, show that had made it despite everything and despite him.

John looked deeply disappointed and saddened when he spoke again.

"That's not what your mother would have wanted for you."

Dean saw Sam clench his fists and teeth. It was the same argument they had heard all their lives, even more unfair for Sam than for Dean. The younger hadn't known his mother. For him, the only evidence of her existence was an old picture dog-eared of a baby who looked like him in the arms of a beautiful tired woman. All their lives they had heard those same words. To make them walk straight, to encourage them to take exactly the way John wanted them to.

Until the day it had been too much for Sam and he had left slamming the door. Dean remembered that moment with a cruel acuteness. He had clenched his fists and teeth exactly the same way that he was now.

"Stop saying that." Sam scolded. "Stop using her like that. She's dead, and she would have just wanted us to be happy !"

"Because you think that you're happy, son ?"

Dean could feel Sam boil beside him, feeling the tension in his muscles ready to strike. By reflex he put his hand on his brother's shoulder, a gesture that didn't always calmed him. This time it seemed to work, he felt Sam relax slightly, just enough to ensure him that he wouldn't reduce their father to a bloody pulp moaning on the asphalt of the parking lot. Yet he wanted to, Dean knew that.

"Go away dad." He said softly, hand still on Sam's shoulder. "We don't have anything to do with you anymore since a long time."

Castiel, Charlie and Kevin were watching without really understand what was happening. When John finally turned around and walked away, they saw Dean and Sam straighten instinctively as if a weight had been removed from their shoulders. They jumped all five when the bus driver's door slammed and Dorothy jumped out of the cab. She clicked her tongue, hands on her hips.

"A real role model of a paternal support that you have here boys." She said.

Dean nodded. "You have no idea."

"Want to share ?"

« Non. » Sam answered shaking his head. He forced himself to open his fists and breathe, pushing Dean's hand away with a movement from the shoulder. "I'm okay" He said low just for his brother to hear.

"I know."

"What just happened ?" Kevin asked as they all entered in the tour bus, Dorothy on their feets.

"John Winchester happened." Dean responded grinding his teeth. He sat in the corner of the seat that surrounded the small bus table, attracting Castiel against him, on his knees as if he was a comforting teddy. The young man let him do, moving only to hand him the glass of bourbon that Sam had just poured to them all. Charlie refused hers with a frown and Dorothy drank it.

"Aren't you supposed to drive soon ?" Kevin asked who was perched on his bunk a bit further with his own glass. Dorothy shrugged.

"We aren't expected anywhere before tomorrow evening." Through the bus windows she saw the hardware trucks leaving. "Beside I know two guys who need to get their spirit lifted more than going on the road."

"We're okay." Sam said drinking up his bourbon. He had setled next to the table too, Charlie sitting beside him.

"That's what people say when they feel bad but do not dare talk about it." The young woman said mid-voice.

Sam smiled softly to her. Dean had closed his eyes, placed his forehead on Castiel's shoulder, one arm around the young man's waist, the other across his knees. He smelled beer and after shave and Dean would have wanted to fall asleep immediately. Waking up the next morning in the arms of his lover with the impression that this night was just a bad dream. Dorothy woke him out of his torpor, slamming her glass against the table. He blinked a couple of times and looked up at her, puzzled. Several months on the road with their regular driver had enabled them to know approximately what kind of woman was Dorothy. The kind that never took "no" for a valid response.

"I call a taxi, we'll need more alcohol than that to recover from dad's visit."

From his perch, Kevin had a chuckle a bit embarrassed. "Looks like the intro phrase of a bad porn" he said. The remark made Charlie laugh. Sam and Dorothy exchanged a conniving glance with a smile.

"Oh non, don't tell me that's..." Castiel started. He stopped when Sam rose a hand to Dorothy to slap. "Is that really from a movie ?" Sam and Dorothy nodded in concert.

"You are.." Charlie began.

"Genius ?" Sam proposed at the moment Dorothy said "Fabulous ?"

"Depressing. The word she's looking for is depressing." Dean grinded while closing his eyes again, cheek comfortably settled on Castiel's shoulder.

Ten minutes later they were all engulfed in the back of two taxis which Dorothy gave the address of a nightclub far enough from the center to not meet a fan or pseudo journalist. Yet they wouldn't go unnoticed. Sam was still shirtless under his leather jacket, Charlie still wore her torn shorts and red boots she had on stage and Kevin hadn't been concerned to withdraw any of his piercings. Atlanta was not Los Angeles, here they knew, they would attract attention. But they had commonly decided not to care. The trip was made in a heavy silence.

Dean had almost made Sam promise to behave themselves, then he had changed his mind, had slipped his hand into Castiel's back pocket and pushed him in the car. It wasn't a night to be calm. He nibbled the ring that was in his lower lip, smiling despite himself. Curiously, he couldn't get "_Reckless_" out of his head and yet he rarely sang his own songs. He hummed quietly watching the streetlights succeeding each other through the taxi window.

_"Running away was such a relief_

_That he could no longer grieve_

_His old life washed up on the shore_

_But he misses normalcy, each year a little more"_

"I thought it would have calmed down by now. You know, that feeling of being less than nothing in front of him." Sam said thoughtfully during the trip. He had his forehead pressed against the window, arms folded and looked dejected.

"Apparently not." Dean said. Castiel was seated between them, his leg against the singer's, he had sprawled on the seat in order to prop his head on it and Dean would have kissed him in the neck if he hadn't seen his own reflection in the driver's mirror. He had preferred to put his hand on his lover's knee. In fact much higher than the knee and Castiel hadn't protested.

They said nothing more on the way but the brothers exchanged a glance when coming out of the taxi, just before entering the nightclub. A glance whereby they just recommended to each other to not do anything illegal. It was their rule for many years. Since the day that Sam had watched his apartment go up in smoke unable not to imagine the cries of his girlfriend trapped inside. Don't do anything illegal.

It was their rule. Everything else was allowed, but nothing illegal. They did not need this kind of problems in addition to the rest.

They had both watched their step since the long drive between California and Arizona, where they had talked more than since their teens. When they had stopped at night, exhausted, desperate and unhappy, they had entered a bar, drank excessively and had listened to a lonely country singer talking about his lost love. Sam had wanted to silence him with punches but he had restrained himself, already too drunk to stand straight.

"We should do that." He had stammered in an alcoholic fog.

"What ?"

"Music." It was how it had started. With two brothers who were nothing else but stray cats, alone and lost, who had only each other in the world.

Entering the night club, Dean was thinking about this moment. He cruelly remembered the days that had followed and some of the sharp words that their father had deigned to speak to his younger by way of condolences. Shortly after they bought an old guitar that Dean still carefully preserved in their Californian apartment, and drums for Sam they had placed in the back of an old rented Dodge. That day, he had had exactly the same feeling as he felt now. A strange excitement made of apprehension and haste, something bubbling inside him and making him want to jump in feet first in the future like in a large mud puddle. He smiled at his brother, took his lover by the waist and Dorothy by the hand. The music enveloped them six, aspiring them in a swirl of smoke and moving bodies. It was exactly what they needed.

_« Carving his rock on restless nights,_

_And healing his heart with gentle hands_

_The reckless mess became a man,_

_The reckless mess never stops to fight. »_

##

"I feel ten years younger." Dean giggled.

"Me, twenty years older." Sam replied lying on the ground on the dirty concrete of the drunk tank. Dean pushed him with the tip of his boot and reaped a grunt in reply.

"Come on Sammy, smile a little !"

"Prefer not." The younger grumbled with deep certainty that if he smiled he would vomit. The world revolved around him unpleasantly like he kept falling into a bottomless pit. His stomach was doing loops, and waves of nausea accompanied by violent chills regularly forced him to curl on himself, moaning.

Dean sat on the cell bench, head in hands, alcohol made him find very funny a situation that was probably not. The night had become interesting in a relatively short time that he counted in cocktails. Sam had minded to take only those with the most suggestive names, specifying the barmaid he would feel personally offended if he was deprived of one small paper parasol. In far too short time, their table had been covered by different sized glasses and Charlie and Kevin had started to play 3D puzzles with phosphorescent stirrers ("Do four triangles with four stirrers !"). Before that alcohol blurs his perceptions, he had seen girls turn around them, throwing glances at Castiel who wasn't paying attention and to Sam who sent them kisses, smiling with all his dimples, sometimes rising his drink so a girl could dip her lips into it. Dorothy had ended up taking his glass off his hands while Dean had led Castiel on the dance floor.

How it had all degenerated, none of them could really tell. Probably a combination of factors. Charlie had thrown her glass to the face of a too eager guy who had started screaming, calling her every name under the sun, eyes burned by the orange vodka. The guy must have had friends who came attracted by his cries covering the too loud music. Oddly it was Kevin who had struck the first blow, and from where he was on the dance floor, even with the strobes in the eyes, Dean had seen that the young man had hurt himself. Sam had not had this problem when he had stood up, dominating every client of the club, at least a head taller. Sam knew where to hit to hurt and without hurting himself. Dean hadn't had the time to hold his brother back and no torture could have make him remember how his hands had moved from the loops of Castiel's jeans to the chins of perfect strangers probably too drunk to understand what was happening to them. He had caught Sam's eye. His brother was smiling, a yellow parasol still stuck behind one ear, two rising from a pocket of his perfecto, just before his fist knocked one of their assailant right in the solar plexus. The man bent over in pain, just enough to provide a gripping spot to Sam's hand who, with a violent blow sent him flying across the table. Dorothy and Castiel had escorted Charlie and Kevin out, leaving the brothers alone with a group of furious customers, insult on the lips. The two brothers had placed back to back.

"You can't stay still !" Dean had growled seeing others gather around them.

"Kevin started."

Dean had rolled his eyes. But he couldn't really say he blamed his brother or that he fundamentally didn't like it. Adrenaline alleviated the pain of the blows he took and he fought back with a fierce joy that wasn't much next to Sam's. It should have worry him, it was his role as a brother to worry seeing his younger slip into old habits. But he just placed his back to his, and helped him distribute the blows.

The police had separated the fighters shortly after and now they were in drunk tank, Sam, Dean and a number of their assailants. Those they hadn't banged up too much at least. Sober, Dean wouldn't have been proud of him and he wasn't looking forward to get there because then the guilt would begin to eat him away. For now he was still pleasantly drunk and his ears were still slightly buzzing with excitement. He forced himself to stay still, aware that his every movement increased Sam's nausea. The youngest was still broken paper umbrellas stuck in the pockets of his jacket, small colored spots against the black leather tacky with alcohol.

"Bobby's going to kill us." Sam said between two nauseas. Dean nodded.

"But that was fun."

"Yep."

They said nothing more and Dean probably slept a while because he opened his eyes at the metal grating of a key in the lock of their cell. The sound bored his temples, seeming to pass in areas of his brain that he wasn't aware until now. On the ground, Sam whined moving his hands on his ears.

"Hello cowboy." Said the mocking voice of Dorothy. Dean painfully focused on the young woman who preceded Bobby in the cell. She was wearing a leather jacket from another age, cargo pants and boots that he hadn't seen on her the day before. She had certainly changed herself between their arrest and her return and he wondered what she had done about the others.

"Where are..." He began in a voice hoarse to have been merely used lately.

"Next motel. They're all fine." Bobby replied instead of the young woman, rushing into the cell to catch Sam's arm and force him to stand up. The young man stood up painfully, moaning in pain, eyes mid closed and Bobby threw him a t-shirt on the face that he grabbed awkwardly.

"Get dressed kiddo, we gotta go on the road." Sam's stomach clenched in protest and Bobby gave him an annoyed look. "You put yourself in this situation , Sam, take your responsabilities."

"I didn't say anything !" He protested.

"Just wanted it to be clear."

Sam pulled the t-shirt on while Dean was recovering their belongings in the office of a grumpy duty officer and was signing their defense. They followed Bobby and Dorothy outside without a word and settled in their manager's truck.

Sam had barely stretched his long legs sitting in the passenger seat that Bobby threw something on his knees.

"It's already in all the local papers and next week it'll be in all the tabloids !" He almost shouted while turning on the ignition. Dean leaned between the two front seats to take a look to the newspapers. The pictures that illustrated it hand't been taken the day before, but the articles were all more or less accurate. Someone or several someone had certainly recognized them in the club and spread the word.

"Jody's gonna love it." Sam commented, handing the newspapers to his brother.

"And she'll tear your eyes off your heads if it threatens the other dates of the tour !" Bobby grinded. "We can't afford this kind of publicity boys! Not now !"

Dean leaned back in his seat fighting against the guilt that was invading him. He didn't have to feel guilty, he hadn't start the fight and it was out of the question to leave Sam plunge into trouble alone. He had had no choice but hit back and if he'd been asked he would have to admit that he had rather liked it. It was different, for once to let go, to not have that composed face of star, to not do exactly what was expected of him. It was like returning to the time when Sam and him were wandering on the roads from one bar to another, driven only by their desires and their words scribbled alternatively always on the same old notebook.

Yet he felt guilty for betraying Bobby's trust, for breaking the promise that he and Sam had made "Don't do anything illegal, stay out of trouble". A fight in a bar wouldn't ruin their lives. Probably their reputation a bit, but after all they played rock, not opera, so fighting, drinking too much, and misbehaving was a bit what was expected of them.

Who had one day talked about "sex, drugs and rock n' roll" ? They failed this saying only on the drug plan. Bobby made sure of it and the few experiences of Dean in this area hadn't really made him want to continue. Sam, on the other hand had all the qualities required to end up nose in coke, but everyone knew their pact. "Nothing illegal." Sam sticked to it, everyone around them sticked to it and if drugs were circulating around them, at least they did it quite discreetly so members of Free Will could pretend to not see anything.

"Yeah, sure !" Dorothy said, pulling Dean from his thoughts. "It was high time we heard about them ! Scandal sells Bobby."

"Scandal isn't a term of the contract they signed !"

Sam had laid his head against the passenger window and closed his eyes with a painful sigh. "Screw the contract." He grumbled.

"You shouldn't boy. This contract ensures you regular incomes and the means to continue to make your music. I know dozens of guys that are dying in the street waiting for such opportunities."

"Great a new leash around our necks." Sam muttered, wrapping himself in his jacket, as far as he could from Bobby.

Dean and Dorothy exchanged glances and the singer sighed. He understood Sam. They hadn't left their father's authority just to get back under the heel of someone who didn't even really cared about their interests. John was a.. Dean had the words in mind but refused to think them too clearly. But at least their father sincerely wanted the best for his sons. Their only point of disagreement was the nature of this best. Their record company, however only wanted its own benefit and they were all aware of that. Certainly the money wasn't a problem even if it wasn't unlimited, but the counterpart was sometimes difficult to accept. If they still had the right to compose their songs, those were scrutinized, detailed, reformulated, re-cut to be "marketable". God save them of a worse label than the small "_Mature content, parental control Advised_" that now adorned the their CD case. It was almost funny to have fled to create a life and discovered that you're ultimately never totally free. Or that the price is just a bit too high for you.

Dean also put his head against the cold glass with a sigh.

"It won't happen again, Bobby." He promised, earning a disapproving grunt from Sam and a surprised raised eyebrow from Dorothy.

Bobby didn't peplied anything for a moment and then "For what it's worth boys. Charlie told me what happened. Personally I'm rather glad you rearranged these morons's faces."

The brothers smiled, relieved even if they wouldn't have confessed. It was not a perfect life nor quite what they had fantasized, but it had good, very good sides. You just had to adjust to it. The Winchester brothers were exceptionally adjustable when it came to find their place in the sun.

Dean had still the same song in mind, slightly distorted by his hangover.

_"The Reckless man didn't give no shit_

_About anyone or anything_

_Carving his way through life_

_Even if he didn't ask for it,_

_There's only one way out_

_When life's too much a duty_

_But he would never think about_

_Giving up to fatality."_

Several hours later, a grumpy Bobby dropped them at their hotel and Dorothy slipped away for a well deserved nap promising to slaughter anyone who would wake her up before the time to hit the road. Sam found Kevin playing video games, a mid closed eye under a cold compress hoping to regress his black eye.

"Sorry for that, dude." Sam said rummaging through his bag in search of clean clothes. The young man made a movement of his controller to indicate that it was no big deal and gasped indignantly when his character was killed. Sam went to the shower, promising to kick his ass in multiplayer mode as soon as he would have ate something. And drank about his weight in water.

Charlie and Castiel were reading each sprawled on one of the great beds in the room when Dean entered it. Castiel had borrowed his bedside book to the singer and was reading aloud a passage to the guitarist. A passage that talked about food like about the whole book. Dean felt his stomach turn at the mention of a spice and alcohol which despite three reading of the book he couldn't determine the origin.

They both smiled at him and Charlie stood up, one finger between the pages of her book, to greet him. She put an arm around his shoulders and held him against her before wrinckling her nose.

"You smell."

"Sorry, Your Highness, the jailers didn't let me take a shower." He grumbled by getting rid of his jacket he dropped to the ground.

"Have you told them that you had fought to defend my virtue ?"

"What virtue ?"

From the other side of the room they heard the laughter of Castiel who hadn't moved from his place. Charlie shot him a false outraged look, hitting Dean's shoulder with her book.

"Happy to see you again, Convict."

Dean smiled but didn't raise and the young woman left. He collapsed on the bed with a sigh. His vertebrae gave him the impression to put themself back one after the other as he settled deeper into the mattress.

"She's right." Castiel said drawing himself up on one elbow to look at him. "You stink."

"You love it." Dean mumbled, eyes closed.

"True." Castiel leaned over him to put his lips on his, gently, his hands gripping the singer's stained t-shirt strong enough to deform it.

"Do I have to drag you to the shower ?" He asked, not bothering to really move away from his lover.

Dean shook his head, banging their nose by the way, his eyes still closed. "Nah. I'll go, just help me to my feet before I fall asleep."

The showers in hotels were every time an adventure. Their temperature could vary from "Arctic Circle" to "Hell Circle" at the slightest touch of the taps and the pressure usually knew only two options : "Light spring rain" or "Instrument for breaking the Living" (the classification had been established by a Charlie with hair still full of shampoo at the beginning of their tour and she had stayed). Dean turned the knobs carefully to test the shower.

"Stable temperature with option instrument of torture." Castiel said amusingly, leaning against the sink.

"I'm pretty sure my nipples won't resist the shower's pressure !" Dean muttered, hurriedly withdrawing his arm from the boiling water.

"Do you need any help with that ?" Castiel laughed from his position near the sink.

"Nah, for suicide missions I'm doing very well alone." He stepped into the shower with caution as the young man was leaving the bathroom smiling.

"Protects your nipples, I became attached to them !"

"Watch yours when I'll join you !" Dean shouted over his shoulder just before his lover closes the door. Vapor invaded the shower cabin.

By the time he cleared his skin of all traces of the previous night, Castiel had packed his suitcase wich Dean found opened on the bed. The accountant's holidays were ending and he would take a plane back tonight, a few hours before the concert.

"Sorry." The singer said sitting on the bed. "I didn't mean to spoil our last day."

Castiel leaned over to put his lips on his, smiling. "You didn't spoil anything. In fact, it was... pretty hot to see you fight yesterday."

Dean chuckled. "You're not objective."

"I don't want to be." Replied the other closing his suitcase. "I save that for people I don't like." He sat down next to his lover and slipped his hand in his, gently pressing it when he saw Dean didn't answer.

"You'd love me even if I killed someone, wouldn't you ?" Dean asked softly.

"Yes." Castiel answered seriously. He meant it. Dean's face fell and he was only staring at the suitcase placed between their feet. "You don't think you deserve it." Castiel noticed.

Dean shrugged. "I've nothing special. I don't understand why you love me so much. Cas, I ended up in drunk tank yesterday, and I'm not proud of it. And yet you still look at me like I'm Batman or something !"

There was a moment of silence while Castiel was considering his response.

"You're the one that makes me... Cas." Said the blue-eyed young man. He moved to sit on the lap of his companion, legs either side of his hips, arms resting on the singer's shoulders. "Not just Castiel." He started again. "Not the accountant, the former sick child or the guy who lives alone and spends his holidays to follow a rock band like a groupie. Just, Cas." Dean blinked slowly crossing his hands around the waist of his lover. "You see me not only as I am, but as I'd want to be. What do you find in this that is not worthy of being loved ? What do you find in yourself that is not worthy of being loved ?"

Dean smiled, Castiel's forehead pressed against his. The young man's hands caressed his cheeks, his shoulders gently.

"You say that because you saw my father."

Castiel shook his head. "I'm telling you because you need it."

"Do you have enough time to say goodbye ?" Dean asked, leaning towards Castiel to lay a suggestive kiss in his neck. The other smiled.

"It depends, do you invite me to dinner before ?"

"Did I ever invited you to dinner ?"

Castiel shook his head. "Then I believe I have the time to." He said before kissing him again. It was the last time he could do it before what seemed an eternity and he had no intention to waste any second.


	5. Chapter 5 : Worth Fighting For

**Warnings:** mention of past gay-bullying, mention of past physical violence

* * *

**Chapter 5:** Worth fighting for

There was an unusual amount of people in the backstage, fans who had won VIP accesses, reporters, intruders and people Sam didn't even wanted to know who they were. He had took refuge on the scene one hour before the opening of the hall's gates to supervise his drums' assembly while disturbing Madison the best he could.

"The Floor Toms in the order !"

"They are in order !"

"Just wanted to be sure you're following." He teased.

She had an incensed sigh and threw him a fastening piece to the face, slowly enough so he could catch it and play with it for a moment before handing it back.

"Don't you have anything else to do ?" She mumbled. She was sitting on the floor, assembling the cymbals' telescopic stand.

"I do, but I don't want to." He sighed while sitting beside her. "They're twelve thousand over there and at least ten thousand will ask questions about my tattoos."

"Shouldn't have done them on visible areas if you didn't want to talk about it." She said.

He smiled. "The most important aren't visible."

Madison looked at him puzzled, obviously wondering where he managed to hide his tattoos under his too big tank top. He was smiling with all his dimples. From each side of the straps she saw the beginning of the calligraphy which went along his collarbone as a pectoral and ended in the heart of two sunflowers on his left shoulder. By the too large hem, she could make out the head of the phoenix on his hip and a piece of the wolf on his back when he was moving.

"Well played, now I'm curious. Where are they ?"

"Ah ah !" He did while shaking his head and a forefinger in front of her. "No questions !"

"You wanted me to ask you the question."

"Nope." He got up on his knees so he was a bit taller than she was while sitting and leaned toward her ear. "I wanted you to ask the question to yourself."

He had the pleasure to see her lower her eyes, embarrassed. She mumbled an insult before going back to work while he got up on his feet, proud of himself. The backstage weren't calmer than when he had left them and inevitably, being close to six foot high wasn't helpful to weave in and out discreetly anywhere. Bobby addressed him a severe look so he would sit on a couch between the other members of the band to answer to one, two or ten interviews before going on the scene. It was something that he didn't particularly like, especially because he had to stay still, sitting and smiling to people he had absolutely no desire to charm.

One of the reporters seemed different, and the questions she asked confirmed Sam's feeling. To his utter astonishment she neither addressed to him or Dean, but directly to Charlie and Kevin. Other surprise, she didn't asked them what it was like to be "The Group Girl" (Charlie was extremely grateful to her for that) nor if Kevin felt at home in the group considering his ethnic origins (everyone was extremely grateful to her for that). Instead, she asked why he had joined the group. The three others looked at him, they knew how the things had happened. But not really why. Kevin seemed embarrassed for a while, then leaned toward the reporter, elbows on the knees, hands crossed and looked at her as if he was about to reveal an important secret to her, which was certainly the case.

"I had almost dropped the music." He started.

##

Three years ago.

"Hey... How are you ?"

Kevin leaned against the back of his chair, sighing, his phone settled between his shoulder and his ear, head craned in a painful angle.

"I'm fine. How are you ?"

"You're lying." Said Channing's voice on the other end.

"How would you know that ?"

"I get to know you pretty well, after all this time."

He smiled, eyes into space. He could imagine her sitting at her desk like him, facing a pile of lessons, books open before her, the other closed with pens as bookmarks, and a collection of multicolored highlighters within reach.

"Did you play today ?" She asked again. He sighed and ran his free hand through his hair.

"I didn't." He answered. He turned his chair until being able to see the case of the cello left at its place near the closet. "No time with exams approaching."

"You work too much Kevin."

"Or not enough ... I've really no time to waste on that if I want to be admitted to Princeton."

There was a little gap at the other end of the line and then "Remind me why you're keen to go to Princeton so much ?"

"Because that's where the charming princes are trained." He replied in the tone of pleasantry. Channing chuckled, it was an old joke between them. For as long as they had known each other (and it had been quite a while now), he hadn't hide his ambition to go to Princeton, like his father. She had never hidden that she found the University of Michigan well enough for her. "After all, a degree is a degree and we live in a world where you have more chance to earn your living by being a plumber than a lawyer."

It didn't really agree but the argument made sense and they had quarrel enough about it to know that it was not worth getting angry.

"Would you play a piece for me ? Geography will drive me crazy by the end of the day otherwise."

He glanced at his own revisions. The exams were approaching at an alarming rate, it seemed that the time took pleasure to scroll faster every day. But ten minutes more or less would certainly not change anything. He stood up, stretching his aching legs from having remained seated for too long and took the cello from its case.

He had begun to play it because of her entering middle school. They were friends and she spoke of the orchestra with such passion that he had decided to try it.

Kevin had always been a smart kid, probably a little too much, and gifted. He had quickly assimilated the piano and found it almost too easy, too commonplace, ordinary. However, cello...

The instrument was almost as tall as he, massive and surprisingly light considering its size. Its four strings could produce strangely organic sounds of which he felt the vibrations along his hands and in his chest when he was playing.

He sat back on his office chair after having put the phone on speaker and tested a few chords, thinking about what he could play to Channing. The sound wouldn't be as good as if she was in the room with him, but it would be nice anyway. Kevin was determined and never did anything by half. He had spent months playing tirelessly to have sufficient mastery of his instrument before relaxing his fingers became calloused because of the strings. He hadn't really stopped since. Sometimes studies and stress made him forget what he felt when he played. Then he rested the pike of the instrument on the board devoted to this use, bow on the strings, closed his eyes and remembered.

He began to play one of Channing's favorite tunes, a concerto by Vivaldi whose score gave the impression of a spring wind. The instrument was vibrating against his shoulder as he left the music clear his head of his worries. It took him a long time before identifying the intruder sound that disturbed his ear, a piano that had joined him. He smiled slightly and tuned his playing to Channing's until their scores were complementary per the end of the song.

He picked his phone, still holding his instrument.

"Ready to resume geo ?" He asked. He could almost hear her shake her head.

"Another piece ?"

"One, then we really have to work."

"I'll work twice as hard." She promised. He knew she was crossing her fingers behind her back.

##

Princeton was not what Kevin had imagined. He had expected the difficulty of the courses, he had expected the demanding teachers and homework that would fall on them in steady rain. He hadn't expected the other side of the Ivy League. He hadn't thought about the rich students who'd come passing the time while waiting for their parents to make a fairly substantial donation to the university to buy their diplomas. He hadn't imagined staying awake all night not to work but because his barrack room neighbors were partying. He hadn't expected to find himself so alone that it seemed, for the first time in his life, that he was the ugly duckling from the story. But he had worked so hard to get there, his mother had sacrificed so much to pay for his education that he couldn't give up now.

His cello rarely left from its case now, too many things to study, not enough time to play. With the lack of practice he lost his touch a little more each day and dared less to approach the instrument that his roommate sometimes openly mocked.

"Couldn't have learned to play an instrument for real men, asian boy ?"

A year went by in this way. He made few friends and yet not very good ones. College wasn't at all like he had imagined it. When he returned in Wisconsin for the spring holidays, he saw Channing and their old friends with a pleasure that he hadn't felt for months.

The cello came out of its case and neither his mother nor Channing only made the slightest allusion to his obvious lack of practice. It wasn't that fun to play from now on. It was hurting his fingers, ears and heart.

His eyes and mind focused on his studies, on moving one step after another, day after day, and the cello remained in the Wisconsin abandoned on his bed.

In June that year, the admission lists for the second year didn't contain any Kevin Tran.

For the first time, Kevin wasn't the best. The dream he had pursued for so long was cracking under his feet and the first person he had the courage to talk about it was Channing.

Wisconsin was gray and rainy when he returned head down and tail between legs. His mother made him sit at the big table in the dining room. "Now what ?"

##

Kevin looked up the journalist who was taking conscientious notes.

"She said, "Now what?" and I had no answer. Not a single dream to pursue, no purpose, no ambition."

"What did you do then?"

"I had almost dropped the music. And that was the only thing I had left. So I took a single ride to LA."

He glanced at Dean and Sam. "And it worked. I didn't even have a dream anymore, and it came true anyway."

The journalists were all looking at him, some with a skeptical smile.

"Did you just invented all of this ?" Sam asked with a huge smile.

Kevin winked at him "Maybe."

"Or maybe he's telling the truth." Charlie intervened.

"In any case it's a beautiful story, can I tell it to my kids someday ?" Dean laughed.

"You aren't likely to..." A kick in the ankles silenced Sam. "Whatever" He grunted retracting his legs as far away as possible from his brother. He smiled to reporters to distract them while ignoring Dean's annoyed look.

Leaving the lodge that served as a press room, Charlie retained Kevin's arm. They waited for all journalists to be out of earshot before speaking.

"The girl who made you take the cello up again, does she know ?"

"That I'm part of a band ?"

"No, that you're in love with her."

Kevin choked on his saliva and stared at her with wide eyes. He felt Sam pass an arm around his shoulders and lean on him.

"Where would you see that ?" He mumbled.

"It is rather obvious given the way you talk about her !"

"I am not..."

"Oh yes you are." Dean intervened.

"And certainly for a long time." Sam added. Kevin pulled his arm away, annoyed and embarrassed. The three others were still staring at him. The backstage neon gave them an oddly pale and sallow complexion, made their piercing shine. They were waiting for an answer.

"Since I was twelve and till today." He sighed, knowing they would not let him in peace before they get their answer.

"And you never told her ?" Dean asked, perplexed. Kevin shook his head. It was that or shrug, he couldn't do both at the same time.

"Tell her you're in a band. It always work." Sam said, leaning back on the wall.

Kevin shook his head again. "It works for you because you have extremely low standards. Channing doesn't care if I'm in a band or in the streets. She's my friend."

Sam made a rude comment that he didn't listen. That night, the sound of the cello had a particular taste and Kevin couldn't help smiling during the whole concert and even long after.

##

Castiel noticed the bruise only long after returning home when he met by chance his reflection in the bedroom mirror. He decided to ignore it.

It was part of the things he had decided not to worry about. Do not worry, do not panic. Do not remember that this was how everything had started.

He returned to work on Monday morning. A few rare colleagues noticed the new addition to his tattoo on which he still passed healing cream on a regular basis. He plunged back with satisfaction in the alignment of figures of the balance sheet of the company for which he worked. Invoices and expense justifications started to arrive on his desk with a reassuring regularity.

It was a different life than being on the road with Free Will. Having Dean on the phone every night was nothing like his presence and Castiel would have lied if he had said that he didn't miss the singer. But no one asked him the question because nobody knew and it suited him perfectly. He loved the order and immutability of the figures who lined up on his computer. He loved the regularity of his life every day, get up every morning, have breakfast, work until evening, sometimes go out for a drink with colleagues and avoid embarrassing questions "So Castiel, do you see anyone at the moment ?"

"In a way."

Then he returned home, dined waiting for Dean's call then fell asleep again, all smile. It was regular, serene, reassuring. Very different from the disjointed life he led when he was following them on tour or simply when Free Will was in California, Dean paying him a visit most of the time at the most improbable moments.

The two aspects of his life complemented each other curiously well and Castiel was pleased to enjoy his regained tranquility for a few weeks.

Then he could no longer ignore the bruise. The bruises, actually. He bruised every time he bumped somewhere. One on the hip, thanks to the door handle. One on the shoulder, thanks to the can of food that had struck him two days before, falling off the shelf. Several on the legs for which he accused the coffee table, his desk or God knew what.

He might have continued to pretend not to see them if he hadn't had a sudden high fever over it. He could feel it without even checking his temperature. His eyes and cheeks were burning, his voice was hoarser than usual, and one night he woke up in a sweat, the covers rejected so far from the bed he thought he had had nightmares.

Working days seemed longer to him, more toilsome and appetite was already lacking. This was how, exactly how everything had started in his teens.

He looked at the tattoo that passed his sleeve. The eight egrets that were flying away from the dandelion. Eight years of remission.

When later that night, Dean called, the voice joyful and excited like every time he made a good show, Castiel told him neither about the bruises nor about fever. He curled up in bed and listened to his lover telling his day without saying a word.

"Cas... You're all right ?" Finally asked the singer.

Castiel nodded, knowing full well that Dean would not see him.

"Sing something to me please." He didn't add that he wouldn't manage to fall asleep without it. Dean knew. There was a moment of silence on the other end, then the noises and static on the line became more audible when Dean put the speaker on and retrieved his guitar. First there were only little hesitant chords, then gradually a melody that Castiel didn't know. It was gentle, played by one guitar but no doubt that with the addition of drums, bass, and cello it would seem more rousing. For now it was a lullaby that suited him. He closed his eyes, the phone jammed between his ear and the pillow. He didn't put the speaker on as if let the sound spread in the room would weaken the content, as if it was a secret that might be unveiled.

_"There's monsters under my bed_

_Dad gave me a gun to get rid of them_

_Salt on my window keeps demons away_

_I ride, Death by my side, everyday."_

Castiel felt a huge sob shake his chest and stuck in his throat. He smothered it by biting his fist until the pain made his eyes swollen with tears. The very soft music seemed to wrap around him like his lover's arms during bad days. But there was nothing other than the blanket over his shoulders and he was acutely aware of his own solitude.

_"But remember who is the real enemy,_

_It's not the nightmare that keeps you up at night,_

_It's the nightmare that lies inside of me_

_Far away from my reach, far away from my sight"_

One thing Castiel had often heard around him in concert, it was the way people were deeply touched by the lyrics of the group. Or other songs. He firmly believed that there was for every human being a song which spoke to them so much, so deeply that she could change their lives.

How did Dean managed to choose everytime exactly the right song to calm his fears, to lull him to sleep, to wake him up ? He didn't know and didn't want to ask the question.

_"Every monster can be killed,_

_But there is no monster as fierce as your own hate,_

_The worse enemy you'll have to fight is in your head,_

_I know every monster can be killed_

_But sometimes, a gun won't get rid of them."_

Castiel smiled and sniffed. He had like a big lump in the breast and didn't know if it was love, relief or panic.

"You're crying ? Hey it wasn't meant to make you cry !" Dean said at the other end of the line. He had that slightly worried and annoyed tone that he always had when he expected an unpleasant criticism. Castiel rolled onto his back the phone in hand and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

"No, I'm not crying." He lied. He was curiously good at lying.

"Liar."

Maybe not this good, in the end.

"I miss you." Castiel said to drift the conversation.

"I hope so."

They hung up shortly after but Castiel stayed a long time looking at the screen of his phone. There was a photo he had took of Dean, backlit. He was from back, and was barely recognizable, but the photo both overexposed and in the shadows showed something of the singer that Castiel was one of the few to know. He gazed at the screen even after it had turned black until his eyes burned from fever and tiredness. He remembered without really know where it came from a phrase he had told to Dean a few week earlier. Just after Kate's death. "That's something worth fighting for."

He pushed a key to bring the phone back to life and composed the number he still knew by heart years after even if he only saw his attending doctor once a year for an usual follow-up care.

"Doctor Talbot ? I think I have a problem." He said with his husky voice.

He pressed the phone in his hand repeating to himself in a loop "_Worth fighting for, worth fighting for_."

He didn't realized that he was shaking and that panic tears had started running along his nose while he curled up on himself in his bed.

##

Dean was sharing his hotel room with Sam that night. His younger brother hadn't made a single sound when he had played a song for Castiel. He had intended to slip away when the singer had got his guitar out but had sited on the bed at his brother's sign. They had lived, just the two of them for years, then Castiel had joined their lives and it had never been a problem for the drummer. They were a family, a clan, and Sam was one of the few rare person in the world to whom Dean didn't hide anything. So a simple phone call, a sweet song for his lover, it wasn't the kind of things he felt the need to hide. It was a shared intimacy which constituted what was the closest of a home for them lately. Sam has stayed quiet during the whole song, listening to it certainly as much as Castiel. When he hung up, Dean stayed leaned above his guitar, thoughtful.

"Why did you left ?" Sam asked. The other turned his eyes toward him, he looked tired and took a while to understand the question.

"Someone had to watch over you."

"No Dean, the true reason."

It was a question he posed regularly for years without getting a satisfactory answer. But tonight there was something different in the air, a little more confessions, a little less restraint. Something favorable to secrets.

"Josh." Dean replied after a moment, his back to his brother, watching the parking lot through the window just to not meet his gaze.

"Josh. I'm supposed to consider this a sufficient answer ?"

Dean sighed again, unable to develop, waiting for Sam to do what he did best : take the hint.

"...Dad knew for him and you ?" Sam asked softly.

"There wasn't anything between us."

"Like it'd stop him." Sam gritted. "He's obstinate, I guess once the idea crossed his mind he stuck to it."

Dean nodded.

"What happened ?"

"I never knew. Never really wanted to actually. But Josh ended up at the hospital with a missing tooth and two broken ribs. A few fingers, too. When I came back Dad barely looked up from the TV. He said that was what happened to boys like him. I assume that for him it was very clear that it also meant the boys like me."

Sam smiled without joy, it was a stretching of the corners of the mouth just marking his contempt and lack of surprise. "He didn't exactly use those words, did he ?"

Dean didn't need to answer, they were both here the day of the last confrontation between Sam and their father, they both knew exactly which words John could use to talk about his own sons.

"What happened next ?"

"What you'd want me to have done ? I never knew if it was dad or his friends who had done it, and I couldn't really explain to Josh what had happened."

"So you left."

Dean nodded.

"Does Cas know that ?" Sam asked again by lying on his bed, one arm under his head, turned to his brother. He had only removed his jacket and his shoes, and his tattoos put a touch of strange color on the grey bedspread.

Dean acquiesced. "He asked about the guns."

Sam nodded. Dean was referring to his very first tattoo, the one that was still under a large bandage when he had broken into his apartment at Stanford years earlier, scaring Jessica and nearly being thrown through the window by his little brother. It wasn't really a week that he liked to remember, but tonight, things were a little different. Something in the air maybe, or perhaps because the two of them were alone for the first time in several days. He crossed his arms, closed his eyes and let his thoughts take him back to the night he had seen Dean, two years after slamming the door of their home. Two years without news almost. A phone call at Christmas or at their birthday, a card at the new year, and often, the feeling of recognizing Dean in a silhouette on campus, in a move, or the smell of an old leather jacket in a amphitheater.

Then one night, Jessica had awakened suddenly swearing that there was someone in the apartment and Sam had hit on an intruder before this one starts to grumble "Damn Sammy it's me !".

No one called him Sammy other than his brother and his father. Maybe because he had not really the stature or the size of someone who's given a diminutive or nickname. Maybe also because the last guy who had tried it had coughed blood for several days thereafter.

Of the first night they had spent together, Sam remembered very little. He had asked Dean why he had finally left from home and his brother had evaded the question. Now he knew. He also understood the tattoo, now, years later. Two pistols, their barrels crossed, disappearing in a flowerbed of roses in the small of the back of his brother. Sam had made fun of the location, calling it his "tramp stamp" until it was no longer funny, and Dean had always just smiled, shrugging. His tattoos had all deeper meanings than Sam's. But this one was special. There had to be a reason why the two weapons were different, a Colt and a Beretta, one bearing the word "Ask" and the other "Tell". By themselves the two words had clearly enough indicated to Sam the meaning of the tattoo and he hadn't asked further questions. Their father had been part of the Marines, and the law of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" had almost always been displayed in letters of fire above their door in Kansas.

"When you left home, you came directly to Palo Alto, right ?"

Dean nodded, puzzled. Sam and him talked rarely about this time, because it always led to a memory that neither of them wanted to occur to them.

"Why ?"

The singer shook his head. He had never really raised the question himself. It had always been clear that he had needed someone at that moment. Not to listen to him complain, not to help in anything, just a loving presence. His father was no longer part of the reassuring presences in his life long since. Sam was all that remained. Even if they hadn't seen each other for years, even if he had no idea how he would be received.

"I had nowhere else to go." He said finally by putting down the guitar against the bedside table. Sam nodded slowly. They didn't say anything more afterwards and fell asleep one after the other, having reached their maximum capacity of confession.


	6. Chapter 6 : Every Night

**Warnings: **Swearing

* * *

**Chapter 6:** Every night

Dean had lost the ability to think or listen to the word "hospital". The phone was shaking in his hand as though it wanted to live its life away from him.

"Excuse me, I'm... I.. hem.." He stammered, his mind blurred and white.

It was late in the night, he was tired, the sweat soaking his shirt after the show was cool on his back and soon he would start shivering despite the heating of the tourbus. He knew they were watching him, Charlie and Sam with a worried look, and Kevin seated next to him on his bunk, who gently reached out to take his phone before getting up. He was one of those people who can call only while pacing.

"Excuse me." He said with a professional voice that Dean had never heard him. "Mr. Winchester is currently not in a condition to listen to you, therefore I will take the information for him if you please?"

Charlie refrained from giggling, seeing Sam silently repeat his "if you please" by articulating exaggeratedly. Kevin swept them out of his perception field with an annoyed movement of the hand and slipped between the seat and the little table of the tourbus, grabbing a pen that was lying there and made another gesture for someone to hand him paper. He noted an address, a few numbers, thanked the person on the line and hung up. Dean had not raised his head when Kevin began to tap away something on Sam's laptop. It seemed to him that the world had stopped turning. This was only a bad dream he was going to wake up from. He was looking for the flaw in the dream, the improbable detail element that would rule in his favor. But the reality was still the same. He would have hold on anything, the slightest change in Sam's piercing, the slightest change in Charlie's hair, at the slightest defect in the folds of the blanket on which he was sitting. Anything to reassure himself and tell himself that he was dreaming, that he would wake up and bang his head against Charlie's bunk like every fucking time. And like every fucking time he would hear her grunt and turn over above him. None of this happen, and Kevin handed him his phone which had just beep twice.

"You're leaving in two hours. Your plane back tomorrow is at one o'clock. Tickets are on the phone."

Sam and Charlie were watching them without understand. Dean nodded and began to look in the closet for something to change himself. By the time he turned back, Kevin was helding his bag in one hand and his passport in the other. Dean hugged him briefly before rushing off the bus, leaving him to explain the situation to the others.

The famous phrase said that you never know how much you love something until it's gone. Dean had believed that he knew how much he loved Castiel. He had sincerely believed it. But in the taxi that took him to the Texas airport, in the plane that took him back to California, in the corridors of the hospital, he realized that he had been wrong. Incredibly wrong.

He wouldn't have thought it possible to retain as much breath, as if that would change anything! Like a child's play, a bet against fate. "_If I can hold my breath until the traffic light, he'll be fine_", "_If I get down the hall without breathing everything will be fine_". It was stupid but he had no other way to reassure himself. He clenched his hand in his pocket, on his phone which kept vibrating and which he refused to answer before he had seen Castiel. Before the terror that was clawing its way between his ribs had ceased to want to tear his heart to shreds. Or had succeeded.

The day had barely rise and a pressed nurse gave him a dirty look when he entered the service Kevin had noted the coordinates on a post-it slipped into his passport.

"Excuse me, I'm Dean Winchester, you called me about one of your patients... Castiel Novak?"

The look of the nurse softened a bit, he didn't know if it was because he had a legitimate reason to be there, if it was because she was waiting for someone to ask after her patient, or because she knew who he was. In any case he didn't care. She indicated him the room, specifying that it wasn't visiting hours yet.

"I just want to see him, be sure that he's fine."

She nodded and pointed the end of the corridor with her finger. "Hurry, visits are usually the afternoon."

Contrary to popular belief, the hospital did not smell of sanitizer. Actually, the hallway smelled of lemon detergent that someone had just used to clean the floor, and coffee carried by a rattling carriage while caregivers in pink gown opened the doors one by one, asking patients what they wanted for their breakfast.

The room wasn't exactly white either. The walls were covered until mid-height of an unidentifiable material of a rather random green, the linoleum on the floor was clear blue and the blanket of the bed was a faded orange. The ajar door of the bathroom and the walls were of a cream shade that was perhaps just a blank which hadn't aged well. A cart, a fixed table, a chair, a bedside table and a wall cupboard into the wall composed the entire furniture except for the bed in which Castiel was sleeping. He was lying on his back, his head settled between two pillows, and with only the position Dean could tell that something was wrong. The only times Castiel was sleeping on his back rather than curled up between two layers of duvet were when the singer had his arm around his belly and that he didn't dare move for fear of waking him.

He was tempted to go out and close the door quietly but Castiel opened his eyes, turning his head toward the door with a nice smile that tensed when he recognized Dean.

"What are you doing here?" He asked, voice quavering a bit of not having been used for several hours.

"Someone called me last night to inform me that you were here. I thought that I'd drop by, you know, to see if you were still alive." Dean gritted, completely entering the room.

"Why did they do that?" Castiel sighed, closing his eyes again.

"Well, apparently I'm your person to contact in case of emergency." Dean replied, pulling the chair near the bed. Castiel pursed his lips with the movement that he reserved for circumstances in which he castigated himself for his own stupidity.

"Why didn't you call yourself Cas?" Dean asked. Castiel could hear by his voice that he was containing his fear and anger with great difficulty.

"What's the point? If I have nothing serious, then there's no need to worry, and if I have something serious, worrying will not change anything."

"You're kidding, right?"

Castiel turned his gaze to him in surprise. "Why would I make fun of you?" He asked, frowning.

Dean had an outburst of temper. "You really think I could just _**not**_ worry? Since we've known each other, tell me one, just one fucking time I didn't worried, or not felt responsible when something like that happened?"

Castiel had straightened up in the bed as Dean spoke, the singer had got up from his chair and advanced to the window to try to calm down.

"This is exactly why I did not want them to call you! Because you care! Because you're going to worry more than me and I'm already terrified!"

"About what Cas? Terrified about what? A relapse? It's been eight years, you can't relapse!"

"It's in my genes Dean! I can't relapse but I can have a leukemia recurrence or another cancer or pretty much anything! And if that's the case do you know why I did not want to tell you? Because it will be ugly. It will be awful and I don't want you to see it!"

"You don't want me to see what? To see you fight? Struggle for your life? I thought I'd taught you it was worth fighting for! That's what you said, right?" Dean yelled, turning to him.

Castiel opened his mouth ready to respond and closed it after a second. He looked hurt, sad and tired and Dean immediately blamed himself for his fit of temper. He could put this on the account of his fear, of travel fatigue, of the hunger he deliberately ignored, but he still felt bad for wanting this much to yell at his lover to evacuate his own panic.

"Sorry." He apologized while sitting back. "But Cas, we're together, and that means when you fight, I fight too."

Castiel shook his head. "You can't fight with me, not here, not in these conditions."

"I know. And it kills me to be helpless." The singer said, head down.

"That's why I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you to worry."

Castiel pulled out a hand of the bed to take his. Dean raised it to his lips almost mechanically.

"You know... When I was a kid, my mother told me that angels were watching over me when she put me to bed. And maybe that was the case but shit, I wanted them to watch over her too! I had to watch over my lil' brother my whole life because our father was unable to, like those damn angels. No one was there to save Jess, not even Sam because I'd taken him somewhere else that day. So tell me, how can you demand me to not worry? To not do anything when I know that even if we're in the City of Angels, none will take care of you for me? Tell me how you can think that so that I know where I misled you all these years so you think I'm that kind of selfish bastard? Tell me."

Castiel took a long time to respond and Dean was about to apologize when "You didn't mislead me. I know there is an angel watching over me. I knew it the day I saw you and I have never ceased to be grateful since. But worry is suffering, and I think you've had more than your fill in this area."

"I'll never have my fill of you." Dean smiled. He vaguely wondered what he was looking like, with drawn features, barely clean, with tattoos and incongruous piercings in the sanitized world of Castiel.

"This is the gayest thing you've ever said to me." The young man teased.

"I know, if you repeat that to anyone I'll tear your tongue apart."

"That's my rocker!"

Dean found himself laughing and for a few seconds knowing what they looked like had no more importance. An almost smiling nurse came in with a tray for Castiel and he thanked her with the kind of smile that he usually reserved for cats in the street. Dean loved that smile and the way it crinkled his eyes and sides of the nose.

Before leaving, he bent to kiss him on the forehead and then on the mouth. Castiel still tasted like coffee and butter.

"Do us a favor, fight, since you're the only one who can! And whatever you have, promise to tell me. Promise me! So I can at least take care of you."

Castiel nodded slowly.

"I promise."

"I love you."

Castiel just blinked slowly to approve and pulled Dean to him for another kiss.

##

They needed to talk about anything other than Castiel's hospitalization. Dean had just left for the hospital and they wouldn't have news until the next morning. Charlie had disappeared in the roadies' tourbus and they wouldn't take the road for hours, waiting for the traffic to be as fluid as possible on the highway. Sam was leaning against the tourbus' hood and was smoking a cigarette, Kevin at his side. The young man had become accustomed to the smell of smoke, it was almost comforting sometimes. They were discussing this and that, just so as not to allow themselves time to think. Of course, Sam had a fixed idea for some days, and Kevin was bearing its cost.

"Dude" Sam smiled. "You had the courage to leave your life behind you to play the cello across the country, and you still can't tell a girl you've known forever that you love her?"

"As if that was easy!" Kevin grumbled crossing his arms.

"It is!"

Kevin rolled his eyes and didn't replied. It was easy for Sam to say that, he didn't have to go home and explain to the girl he loved that he had thrown away the dream of his life. Sam had nowhere to go aside from the apartment he shared with Dean in LA and Kevin considered him lucky to still have people caring for him, expecting things from him. But coming back the first time after leaving Princeton had been hard enough like that. It has been more than two years now, and he still didn't felt brave enough to knock on the door of the family home with his long hair and his piercings, and smiling to his mother, trying to make her understand that her son, her sweet little Kevin, earned his living by traveling the roads of the United States playing music. She knew it of course, and during their phone call she continually told him that the important was that he get by. But that wasn't the frank and massive endorsement nor the pride he had seen in her eyes the day he had gone to Princeton.

It was just too hard to realize that whatever may have been accomplished, it doesn't matter if you have disappointed those you love in the process. So no, it wasn't easy to pick the phone and call Channing and check in with her. Not for him.

"Watch and learn!" Sam said throwing his cigarette butt in a puddle of water. He walked over to Madison and helped her setting up a crate in a truck, smiling at her.

"Burger and fries when you're done?" He suggested loud enough so a few steps away, Kevin could hear him. She nodded with a smile and walked away to look for a new crate.

"See?" Sam said while taking back his place beside the cellist.

"Not related." The young man mumbled. "She doesn't know you, she doesn't see you as the epitome of the guy who didn't succeed."

"I thought Channing was your friend, and she didn't care whether you were famous or not?"

"That's the case. But she has values, projects, and she sticks to it. I'm not really anymore the person who was her friend back in the day when I lived in Wisconsin. And I don't think she'd like the person I am today."

Sam didn't agree, but he knew when a discussion had no chance of lead to something. He deferred the topic until later and shook his friend's shoulder. He really missed Dean at this moment because he would have needed to talk with his brother. But he didn't answer the phone, and he probably wouldn't do so before seeing Castiel. Charlie had vanished with Dorothy and his self-preservation prevented Sam from looking for them. He eventually retreated in the tourbus with the notebook in which he scribbled meaningless and no worth interest phrases just to entertain himself.

Somewhat later in the night, Madison and he sat down to table one in front of the other under the almost unpleasant neon lights of a diner which gave them a strange complexion and were making their foods appear more colorful than they were in reality.

"There are more colors on one of your tattoos than in all your songs." Madison said thoughtfully watching Sam devour a handful of fries. He wiped his hands on a napkin of a rather similar pink than the heart of the lotus that stretched inside his forearm.

"Probably because I'm more colorful outside than inside."

"Inside everyone is mostly red." The young woman replied with a smile.

"It's not what I meant."

"I know."

They were tired and didn't necessarily feel the need to make conversation. They ate in the relative silence of a Led Zeppelin hit coming out of a Juke box a few tables away.

"What has erased your colors inside?" Madison asked, stirring the ice cubes in her glass with the tip of her straw.

Sam smiled, shaking his head. "You won't get me like that."

"Come on! You can't just play the mysterious man so we ask ourselves questions, and never answer!"

"Why?"

"Because it is frustrating!" She complained.

"Maybe I like frustrate people?" He said with a slight shrug.

Madison crossed her arms, determined to get an answer to her question. He chuckled and stuck his fork into one of his last fries. He never talked about that. It was to wonder why he persisted in telling the whole story on his own skin given how much effort he put on trying to not think about it. Dean knew, knew the whole story from the beginning. Kevin had guessed a portion, Charlie had never asked a question but she knew the most important. They all knew the pain and fear, they saw it in the songs he wrote and when he shut himself up for days alone with his drums, over there at home in California, they would simply leave him alone until he felt better. Slapping on the stretched skins of the instrument was a great improvement compared to before.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have insisted." Madison apologized.

"No. It's okay. What do you wanna know?"

After all, he had to talk about it one day, right? Since tattoos and piercings weren't enough to exorcise the pain. Since as hard as he would hit his drums it'd never be enough. Since after all, it was an old story, maybe tell it would help him to put it behind him?

She stared at him for a moment.

"The lotus?" She asked with a sign from the chin toward his right arm. Sam looked at the colorful tattoo a moment as if he didn't have it on for a so long time. The flower with the yellow and pink heart opened on a bed of ginkgo leaves just below the crook of his elbow.

"They only flower once every thousand years. And ginkgo trees were the first to blossom again after Hiroshima. Eight years ago I didn't have much else to hold on to, I watched it everyday to remind me that was going on anyway. I guess it worked."

"Which one did you do after?"

Sam smiled. "One that decency doesn't allow me to show in public." Madison rolled her eyes.

"Decency isn't usually your strong suit."

He just laughed, pushing his plate. "You know, if you wanted me to get naked you just had to ask nicely."

"You know, if you want a kick you know where you just have to ask nicely!" She grumbled. But she had a smile and he ordered their desserts to change the subject.

"You didn't answer my question about colors." She said while they were returning to the concert hall a few blocks away.

"Well..." Sam started, fists clenched in the pockets of his jacket. "I am the epitome of the good kid who went wrong. Then comes a girl, she is beautiful and nice and she more or less saved me. Then she dies. But you don't want me to tell you that."

"Actually I do." Madison said, eyes fixed before her. "That's the interesting part of the story."

"No you don't. Because after you're going to feel so sorry for me that you'll have to cheer me up with sex."

He hadn't expected to see her smile nor to reply that it had always been part of her plan. He felt himself blush and looked down. Flirt and seduce was a mean of communication that had come to him quickly and rather naturally, probably by imitation, by dint of seeing Dean seducing the whole world around him without even realizing. Yet he was still shaken by the people who used the same method on him, as if it didn't ring true, as if it was an elaborate ruse to attack him.

They had returned to their starting point. The tourbus were gradually returning to life, Dorothy came down from hers holding Charlie's hand. They had matted hair as if they just awakened from a nap, which was probably the case.

"We're leaving?" Sam asked.

Dorothy nodded, yawning. "Coffee first, then we hit the road, don't linger out." She advised before pulling Charlie by the hand toward Bobby who arrived with a tray full of steaming coffee for the drivers.

"So this is where we part?" Madison asked her hand on the door handle of her bus. Sam smiled.

"I thought you wanted to know for the tattoos?"

"They'll still be there tomorrow." She replied, tightening her jacket and her arms around her. She wasn't quite sure to be comfortable with the idea of being so close to him in the reduced space of the bus. Besides she was tired.

"Yep, but tomorrow I may not feel like showing them to you anymore." Sam said, leaning against the bus door, arms crossed. "Never been told to take your chance when it passes within your reach?"

Madison seemed to consider the question for a moment before pushing him firmly as far away from the handle as he was willing to step away from.

"I have. But I can recognize an opportunity that will happen again when I see one." She said, climbing the few steps leading to the door. From her spot she was the same size as Sam, which was a first. "Send me a note when you have news of Castiel."

Sam nodded silently and she slammed the door behind her.

Charlie, Dorothy and Kevin, grouped around the tiny table in the bus were waiting for the drummer to hit the road.

"Did your date went well?"

"That wasn't a date." Said Sam, throwing off his jacket over his bunk. "Not really."

Charlie looked at him quizzically.

"How long have you been hanging round her?"

"Three weeks. And I'm not hanging round her!" He defended himself while pushing Dorothy to get a place at the table with her. He stretched his long legs in the aisle of the bus.

"I've never seen you wait three weeks before jumping on someone." Kevin teased.

"People change" Sam replied laconically. He closed his eyes, fatigue was falling on him like a blanket. "Any news of Cas?"

He heard to the silence that followed his question that the answer was negative.

##

It was the morning of a new day that Castiel wasn't thrilled to begin. It was a thing to be ill when you're a child, when you don't necessarily understand all the words of the doctors, and that nurses have pens with pompoms of all kind of colors in the pockets of their coats.

It was something else to be here again, years after. He was too old now to be hospitalized in pediatrics and nurses only had in their pocket the four color pens whose acute "click" punctuated his day.

"Click" How are you today? (It was asked cheerfully before.)

"Click" I take your temperature (You'll give it back?). Still a little fever. "Click" a note on a paper already covered with scribbles and highlighter strokes that were the only touch of color except for the blue of their gown. "Click" I'll be back.

Click click click which was sometimes accompanied by the shrill and repetitive ringing of a patient who demanded help from someone for this or that. Castiel hated that ring, the noise had certainly been specially selected to get on the hospital staff's nerves. He used it the least possible and some of the nurses, the most churlish or the softer reprimanded him regularly.

"Call when you are in pain! Do not let the pain settle!" There were the same worn out words of being too repeated regardless of the caregiver. Compassion and kindness erased by work and stress. He didn't use the bell, preferred to fend for himself and he could only imagine the exasperated sighs exchanged about him in the rest room. After all what was the point? Some pain cannot be cured, or at a price that Castiel refused to pay.

He still had temperature, and still bruises which didn't disappear. They stretched over his skin in infinite shades of green, purple, yellow and black. Sometimes, pink or orange where blood had eventually been evacuated. He watched every morning at blood sampling a new formed hematoma and every morning he half-listened the nurse apologize by pressing an alcohol swab on the little prick, pathetic attempt to prevent the hematoma from spreading.

And all of that, he didn't find the first word to say it to Dean when he called in the afternoon after landing in Memphis. Instead, he made him tell his flight, avoiding to mention the medical examinations and the blatant lack of information on his condition. But he was well placed to know that Dean wouldn't have much to say. They eventually fall into a little heavy silence.

"Cas, how you doing?" Dean asked in the same tone he would have used to calm an angry dog.

Castiel sighed, turned his gaze to the window overlooking the rooftops. At long intervals thin columns of smoke dotted the gray concrete landscape blended into the sky at dawn and at dusk when the weather was gloomy.

"I pretty much learned to count here." Castiel says quietly. "The nurses gave me problems to solve when I was little. If one milliliter equals twenty drops and you want to pass me a fifty milliliters infusion over one hour at how many drops per second must we adjust the infusion rate?"

Dean said nothing, waiting for a reasonable word to escape from his lover. Or at least something that would seem related to the question he just asked. "I know the price of medical care, three hundred dollars for transfusion. To which you must add the salaries of the medical staff, the local maintenance, expenses and insurance from the hospital. Two thousand dollars a day in hospital. Four thousand dollars a stem cell transplant. I grew up seeing my parents' savings going up in smoke year after year and I'll never be able to repay them."

"They don't ask you to. You're alive, it's the only thing that matters to them."

"I know. But the truth has no hold on the human mind. It does not change the guilt or fear. And I'm scared." That was a very light way of putting it. Actually he was terrified. Terrified that he had reasons to worry. Terrified because nurses didn't say anything to him, because he had spent the day lugged from an examination room to another, and he had no result to calm his anxiety or justify it. "I'm so scared of having ruined everything."

"Ruined what?"

"The chance that you gave me."

"You didn't ruin anything Cas! If you're ill it has nothing to do with you, whatever you've done this isn't your fault." Dean was babbling, at the other end of the country without really knowing what he was telling, just hoping that the sound of his voice and reassuring words would calm his lover.

"You don't understand." Castiel said, closing his eyes.

"Because you don't explain to me." Dean retorted in a cold tone.

"How do you want me to explain that? For you to understand, I would..." He shrugged, the movement painfully pulled on his muscles and sore neck. "I would have to make you ill within the twinkling of an eye. And then heal you the same way. For you to understand the good it does to not suffer anymore. For you to understand what I owe you."

"You don't owe me anything."

"I do." Castiel replied by detaching his eyes off the pigeons who assembled on the roof for night, far above the ground, far above the cats. "I owe you everything. But you don't understand it."

##

"You wanna change the set list tonight?"

Kevin had just sat down on the chair in front of the Dean of the Grand Lodge of the group. From the scene were coming the chords of a support band of which the young man had forgotten the name immediately after hearing it. The singer had the features drawn of someone who hasn't slept in two days. He shook his head, running a hand over his face.

"No need, I've sung each of them so much I could do it while sleeping and everyone there would be completely taken in." He said.

"Even _Every Night_?" Kevin asked. "I'm not even sure that Charlie get to play it without crying. Nor I neither by the way."

Dean smiled, thinking about the song. He was clenching his phone between his fingers, almost hesitant to call Castiel again. It was still early in the evening on the West Coast, he wouldn't wake him up.

"Even _Every Night_." He replied. The song represented something important. It was probably one of the few that Dean could understand it to speak to someone other than him. It was the only one where he explicitly talked about his relationship with Castiel and the young man had absolutely refused it to appear on their second album.

"It's a song that one shouldn't listen anyhow, in a car or as a party background music... There are words that shouldn't be led astray like this." Had decreed the accountant.

Sam had made fun of Castiel's pompous style but they had agreed and they sang it only on stage. Dean nodded again, looking at Kevin.

"We're going to play it, it doesn't matter if we don't get to the end. The important thing is to do it anyway."

"_One thing I need to tell you_

_From the moment we met_

_Despite my lack of faith and my threats,_

_I prayed to you_

_Every night_"

That night when walking on stage, Sam squeezed his shoulder.

"You sure?" Dean nodded. He was sure.

The screams stopped to unknown chords, only the fans who had already seen them in concert knew the song and sang it in unison. Sometimes, Dean was tempted to stop and listen to them, but he closed his eyes and continued because it was a song he wouldn't bear to hear from someone else. It was the only declaration of love that he had agreed to do to Castiel in public and probably the most explicit song of their whole discography.

"_They said I would regret it,_

_They were wrong_

_'Cause everything now seem legit_

_Now I'm good and strong_"

He had the lights in the eyes, the sounds were muffled by his ear protectors, the stage was vibrating under the anonymous flood that faced them, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, Dean felt calm. The fatigue of his lightning trip to LA still weighed on his shoulders, but the floor vibrations went up to the pit of his stomach and seemed to nestle there like the purring of a cat. He had the mind clear. When tuning his guitar for the song, he wondered if this was what Castiel felt when listening him sing, this strange calm born of the things we can control, like a reassuring routine.

"_We agreed to fight_

_To make ourselves smile 'cause we're alive_

_That's our job, do it right_

_And do it again the next week_

_Or don't do it_"

The realization hit him in the middle of a verse. He turned toward Sam. Dean never turned his back to the audience but for once, he looked at his brother, his look of concentration as he dutifully beat the rhythm on the snare drum. Sam looked up at him, raising a confused eyebrow. They both knew that a camera was focusing on their silent exchange and was retransmitting it on the big screen that overhanged them.

That was why Sam had proposed almost jokingly to make music. To unburden himself without anyone listening. To exorcise his pain without endangering himself and his brother only understood that now, as the words of the song resonated strangely down his throat. The young man blinked and pointed with the end of a stick Charlie who was struggling on her bass, head down to hide her tears.

"_Don't ever change, I need you_

_Don't make me lose you too,_

_Cursed or not, I'd rather have you_

_Every night I pray to you_"

Dean moved toward her and gave her a slight shoulder strike. For the public it was probably a little game between them, but that was a sign of comfort. They couldn't talk and Dean had interrupted the song to get away from his microphone. He returned there with a look of support at Charlie while continuing to align the same chords to prolong the music.

"I'm going to lose my bassist very soon, so in her defense... This song is about someone important to us and if you believe in God or anything else... I think we might need all the prayers of the world right now."

Music was also this. A universal prayer. Sam greeted his declaration of a drum roll punctuated by a violent blow on a cymbal.

"_We've been through much together_

_I'll be by your side_

_Gritting my teeth and pulling the trigger_

_Protecting you from the rising tide_"

"Why did you played it anyway?" Charlie complained later that night after the concert. She was wearing a sweater that once belonged to Sam over her black shirt and was curled up on her bunk, her eyes were almost level with Dean's who was getting undressed before going to bed himself.

He didn't reply for a second, letting the time for a Kevin with still dripping hair to go past him to join his own bunk. The bus was traveling towards St. Louis and they would need more than fifteen hours of travel to reach their destination.

Sam had spread to his designated place with a book lent by Madison and Dean looked at him thoughtfully until his brother look up to him.

"What?"

"What would you have done if we hadn't done music?" He asked, clinging with one hand to Charlie's bunk to remove his socks. He would sleep in jeans tonight, too tired to take it off and anyway after being worn for forty-eight hours the clothing was what Dean was considering as more comfortable in the world. Sam closed his book, one finger between the pages and looked up at Kevin who was climbing on top of him to his own bed.

"I would have added lines to my criminal record I guess."

"What about you Kevin?"

"Do I have to answer to your riddle? I'm sleepy!" The young man groaned while turning his back to him.

Dean and Sam laughed softly. The singer raised his hand to take in his Charlie's which was hanging from her bunk.

"What would you've done Princess?"

"Accepted the job at Google I imagine."

Another laugh.

"Finally we're certainly all better here." Sam said, putting his book on the floor before slipping under the blanket. Dean nodded and pressed one last time Charlie's hand before releasing it. He slipped in his turn between the sheets that still vaguely smelled like Castiel and closed his eyes, sighing.

"_I'll fight for you if I have to,_

_They say we're wrong to believe_

_That dreams can come true_

_They're wrong and as long as I live_

_I'll put on a smile for you_

_And every night_

_I'll pray for you._"

"You know why I kept the song tonight Princess?"

"To piss me off?"

Dean smiled and straightened to hit the mattress of his friend's bunk, earning a groan of protest.

"So, why?" She asked in a lower tone.

The engine noise and breathings of Kevin and Sam created a confined and gentle atmosphere. Or exhaustion was getting the best of Dean's last barriers. He closed his eyes and let himself be overwhelmed by waves of sleep.

"Because it's the music that matters. Not the musician." He said softly before falling asleep.


	7. Chapter 7 : Duct Tape and Safety Pins

**Chapter 7:** Duct tape and safety pins

**Warnings:** **Swearing, mention of past domestic abuse, mention of child/teenage abuse, mention of character deaths, more or less graphic depiction of character deaths.**

This chapter mostly relates possibly triggering events. Besides, it's related from a still mourning character's point of view, so it's really not happy. If you don't feel comfortable with those, then please skip to the third part, or skip the entire chapter.

* * *

The ride leading them to St. Louis would last several hours and Madison had taken advantage of a break to sneak into the band tourbus least crowded than the roadies's. Charlie was in the front seat next to Dorothy and Kevin and Dean were watching a rerun of _Project Runway_. Sam was reading on his bunk, Madison pushed him with her fingertips for him to make room for her.

"What are you reading?"

The tour had become over the months a book swapping which only Kevin and his classification system managed to keep a track of. An orgy of paper, a literary gang bang in which everyone had to revise their expectations downward or rarely upward in hopes of stave off the boredom. In one month, Madison had had in her hands more erotic magazines than throughout her life. Actually most of the time she had to return the magazine three times before realizing who was where on the pictures. The totality of _A Song of Ice and Fire_ series was scattered here and there in the different bus, along with the _Liquor series_ from Poppy Brite which had, originally, been Dean's bedside book. Kevin's philosophy collections shamelessly mixed with Kathy Kelly's romances as well as a good third of Stephen King's books. She sat next to Sam, raising his arm to see the book cover.

"_Farenheit 451_? Well above what goes around here." She commented.

"Cas forgot it when he left."

"And don't lose my page, I didn't finish it!" Dean yelled from the lounge area of the bus.

Sam nodded, carefully replacing the bookmark where his brother had paused. Madison settled more comfortably and he placed the book between them. They read the first and the second encounter between Montag and Faber and stopped when the old professor gave him the atrium and their vehicle stopped its route to refuel.

The bus emptied of its occupants except Sam and Madison discussing on what they had read.

"Tell me, if that's not indiscreet, what's a smart girl like you doing here?" The drummer asked, gesturing the bus and the whole tour in general. The smile of the young woman froze and she pulled away from him. "Sorry" he apologized immediately. "I didn't mean to.. That was indiscreet..."

"You apologize a lot for a bad boy." She joked.

"I try not breaking the ranks too much. So you're going to tell me or not?"

Madison nodded but took a moment before starting to speak, she looked tense and uncomfortable. "There's not much to say. I was secretary in an import export company, I had an apartment, a cat, a boyfriend. The ideal life. And then something happened with Kurt. That's the name of my boyfriend, well, ex."

"Something went wrong?"

"He was jealous, began to follow me everywhere, to send threatening letters to all of the men I knew, including my boss. He locked me in the apartment one night so I did not go to a reception of my work."

"Wow... Excuse me but you had found a real asshole!"

Madison nodded. Sam waited in vain that she spoke again.

"What were you doing with him?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I mean, it's not like he introduced himself, like, "Hi, I'm possessive and controlling and I like to punch people. Wanna be my girlfriend?" "

Sam nodded. "Yeah, well, I guess we all make mistakes."

"Yeah, well, mine's wanted by the police. But I had been with him for two years, you don't easily turn your back on it." Sam made a dubious pout. "Actually" Madison started again. "I was too insecure to leave."

"I find that hard to believe."

"And yet that was the case... However, things change, life changes when your man beats you up one day in the street and you end up in hospital." She wasn't looking at Sam anymore now, not sure that she'd be able to face her memories if she saw any emotion on his face miroring hers. Months after she was still afraid and sometimes at night she would turn around on a figure or a gait that reminded her of Kurt and her pulse would quicken.

Sam didn't say anything.

"But then it hit me. I could keep feeling sorry for myself, or I could take control of my life. I chose the latter. I dumped Kurt, resigned and left as far as I could go."

Sam was still silent, but he took Madison's hand into his and she wondered if he was aware that he was stroking her palm with the tip of the thumb.

"I was afraid he'd find me if I stayed too long in one place, so I looked for the least stable job possible. That's how I ended up here."

Dean and Kevin went back in the bus escorted by Charlie. They heard Dorothy's door slam by closing up. Madison waited for the bus to set off again and for the others to be settled before turning back to Sam again.

"What about you? How did you end up in the star business?" She asked to divert the conversation from her.

From the lounge she heard Dean's laughter but the singer made no move to turn around, knowing that his brother wouldn't answer if he had an audience of more than one person. Sam ran a hand through his hair, banged his elbow against the upper bunk, grumbled, delaying the time to honestly answer the question. Finally, with a sigh, he turned to display his back to Madison and pulled up his shirt, revealing the tribal wolf tattoo that stretched on his hip, and, above, between his shoulder blades the outline of a teddy bear, a torn ear from which stuffing came out, one of the button that served as eyes dangling at the end of its yarn, the belly resewn with big stitches. The toy was placed on a ribbon on which she had to squint to read "_Duct tape and safety pins inside_".

"Yesterday I told you about the first one. The teddy is the second one. The wolf, it's Dean."

Madison brushed the tatto with the tip of her thumb. The wolf stretched from his right hip to the middle of his back, legs going up along his spine, nose in the air as if he was about to howl at the moon. He was in profile and only one of his eyes was visible, mint green.

He let his shirt and faced her again. He held out his left arm, the one almost entirely covered with flowers and indicated a magnolia in the crook of his elbow.

"This one, I got it two years after, when I finally beared to think about her. It was her favorite flower."

The story was coming disjointed and without apparent logic, but Madison said nothing. She would understand at the end, like in those police novels where you don't know the name of the murderer until the very last page. But he stopped and didn't spoke for a while, massaging the magnolia on his arm with his thumb.

"Why _"Duct tape and safety pins"_?" Madison asked softly. This particular tattoo was strange, it seemed more personal than the others, less aesthetic. Perhaps the sentence, perhaps the teddy bear that seemed out of a children's book, a bit out of place among the others. Sam took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment as if to gather his thoughts.

"Because that's how I am inside. It's long and complicated to explain."

"I have time, and I'm smart. Maybe I can understand."

He smiled.

"To understand, we must go back quite far. And it has nothing to do with your question about the star business."

Madison leaned back in the bottom of the bunk, Sam's pillow behind her back and stretched her legs out to lay her ankles on the drummer's thighs. She spread the gray curtains that obscured the small window to look outside the road stretching under their wheels.

"As I said, I have time."

Sam started to tell. He was well aware that Kevin and Charlie were listening. That unless he formally forbid her to, the bassist would tell everything to Dorothy later. But after all, as childishly painful as the story was, he didn't have to hide it as if he was ashamed of it. Did it really have to come out today? Like that, years after? While a bleak landscape passed through the window of the purring bus that took them around the whole country? With the feet of a girl he barely knew on his knees? In the presence of people who were now his family and who had accepted him without never asking him more questions than the ones he could stand to respond to?

The answer was obviously yes.

He thought before starting the story that life wasn't like in the books. That important things didn't occur in a large melodramatic outcome full of grandiloquence and fancy words. They occurred just in time, or at the most inappropriate moment. On a Missouri road.

That didn't make it less difficult to tell and the words wedged in his throat, cut his tongue and hurt his lips by crossing them for the first time. But he realized, as he pronounced them, that it hurt him less than he had expected.

1990

"Dean!" Sam's small pleading voice said. Dean shook his head.

"No Sammy! You perfectly know we can't!"

Sam tightened his little arms strongly around the puppy which yelped of discomfort and squirmed to lick his face. Sam laughed and loosened a bit his grip on the animal. He was seven, had a big smile full of dimples and stars in his eyes. Two of these facts didn't happen every day, and from the top of his eleven years of age, Dean began to foresee that it wasn't normal. Sam should have been like the puppy he held in his arms, shuddering, happy.

"Dad will never agree, you know that Sammy!"

Dean hated being the voice of reason because somehow it wasn't for him to do that, for him to see the smile of his little brother wither as he reluctantly let go of the puppy.

"But I had found a name for him already!" He whined. "I'll take care of him Dean I promise! Dad won't even know he's here!"

Dean pursed his lips. The puppy was cute and was beginning to curiously sniff the bottom of his jeans. Dean crouched beside Sam to pet the animal which put its paws on his knees and held out its nose to sniff the new hand that was caressing it. They were in the middle of the street, next to the large box that had contained the small puppies that someone was trying to get rid of. This one was the last, he was skinny with big ears and black round eyes. If it had had a fringe, it would have looked like Sam and this one thought wrenched Dean's heart while he was gently scratching the animal behind the ears.

"We can't Sammy." He put the whimpering dog back in its box and took his brother by the hand to drag him away.

Sam's attitude changed in the following days. Dean hadn't mentioned the puppy to John, just as his younger brother. Yet the child was less thoughtful, a little more open, more smiling. Dean thought he had made a new friend at school. Sam was pretty good at making friends. And probably someone who lived in the neighborhood because Sam would regularly do homeworks at the end of the street at the Harvelle's. Dean was happy with this change in behavior, but still curious. He secretly followed Sam one day. He didn't realize right away what he saw. Looking back years later after Jess' death, he thought it was extremely revealing of Sam's personality. But the 11 year old Dean only saw his little brother pushing the Harvelle's doorway and be greeted by a small ball of golden hair and yapping. The animal was wearing a collar and giving Sam an enthusiastic welcome as if it belonged to him.

Later, presented with a fait, Sam told him, his hands clasped between his knees that he had proposed to Jo to adopt the dog in exchange for all of his pocket money.

"He was going to die in the street Dean!"

"Daddy won't be happy if he finds out!" Dean warned.

Sam frowned and slightly straightened up on the bed where he was sitting. "I've done nothing wrong! This is Jo's dog and I have the right to do whatever I want from my pocket money! And if she doesn't mind that I play with her dog where's the harm in that?"

Dean sighed.

"I couldn't let him die alone in the street Dean. I didn't want him to be alone too!"

And Dean hadn't protested. That very day he had realized how weak he was in front of his little brother's sad eyes. How hard it was to fill all by himself the more and more frequent absences of their father, and how Sam needed to be loved.

How had they managed to keep the secret for so long he had no idea. But when Apple (Sam had called the dog like that because he thought he had the same color than the big yellow apples Jo's mother used to cook Dean's favorite pies) had died two years later, hit by a car, Sam had been inconsolable. So that even John, who though paid little attention to his sons since they were in age to dress by themself, noticed. When he knew the whole story, he looked coldly at Sam and Dean was sure he was about to yell at his brother. But he just shrugged. "This is a lesson you're going to have to learn very quickly my son. To love is expose yourself to pain."

It was probably one of the wisest things that John had transmitted to them. But being nine years old, the little boy who had just lost his dog didn't understand that John spoke from experience, having himself lost his wife long ago. He only knew that the pain he felt would inevitably return sooner or later. Because he loved Dean more than Apple and Apple's death was already horrible. What would happen if he lost Dean someday? And he loved his father too. And so far nothing had come to prove that John was wrong.

Love was to expose himself to the suffering and there were some pains that Sam didn't feel able to endure. Like it or not, grieving are many in a lifetime, Apple was only the first one. Then came the daily grievings, the mundane pains that seemed insurmountable at the moment. Gradually, Sam got used to the idea that love always brought suffering. Dean kept trying to tell him it was silly to believe that, to tell him he couldn't help loving, but Sam tried anyway. And he succeeded pretty well.

And then there was Jess.

Sam interrupted his story to swallow the lump in his throat. Talking about her had become less difficult over the years, but it was still painful. It always brought the same images behind his closed eyelids. Her smile when she saw him in the morning, her dancing approach in the street, and the ghostly feel of her fingers pressing against Sam's cheeks when she drew him to her to kiss him. Sometimes when he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, he could almost seem to smell her perfume again.

He cleared his throat and tried to resume his story.

"Dean wrote his first song when he was twenty years old and I was sixteen, I think. I was already a little jerk at the time."

"You aren't..." Madison protested but Sam silenced her with a nod.

"Oh yes. All of Lawrence cops know who I am, believe me. And it was always Dean who picked me up at the station. He probably didn't yelled at me as many times nor as strong as he should have, and I was long to understand that it was because he didn't hold me solely responsible for my bullshit."

Madison smiled. "I don't know any teenager who doesn't make any bullshit."

"You didn't know Dean, then. All he didn't do, I did a hundredfold." He rose cautiously to get their notebook. Somewhere in the locations reserved for cards, remained one of the few evidences of that time. He handed Madison a picture of him. He couldn't be more than fifteen or sixteen. He was thin, hair even longer than now, and someone had photographed him playing with a dog standing on its hind legs and almost as tall as he. Madison examined the picture for a while. Whoever had taken it had to be either very good or very in love with Sam because from the old shot emerged something desperately joyful and tender.

"I was seventeen. I had run away from home. The girl who took this picture certainly still has a target with my face in the middle. Dean knows what I did to her, and if you wanna know what kind of asshole I was at the time you can ask him. I honestly thought he was going to beat me when the cops came down on me and that he picked me up at the station and quite honestly I would have deserved it. And instead he locked up in the garage and he wrote a song. Well, the beginning of a song."

"What did it say?" Madison asked.

"_He made sure your heart looks as good in black and blue, as my soul in bloody hues._"

"Juste that?"

Sam nodded. "Just that. As far as I know he never found anything else to write about. And even back then I understood that he was talking about our father." He turned to her with as few expressions as possible on the face. "My father never laid a hand on me, not once, even when I would have deserved it. And I guess you could consider that it was a proof of his concern for me, but when Dean came for me that day, he still had a scar on his lip and leftovers of a black eye. If you ask him he'll tell you he caught himself on a wall or he has been mugged in the street. I know when he lies, and believe me, he lies."

Madison said nothing for a moment, digesting the information, then "Does Dean still see himself like that? As a soul in bloody hues?"

Sam considered the question for a moment before answering. "I think so. I also believe that he thinks that Castiel can remedy it."

"What do you think?"

Sam chuckled without joy. "All I can tell you is that I received enough blows to know the marks they leave aren't only black and blue. Even in the heart." He said. "It's because of that, the tattoo. Duct tape and safety pins. This is the only thing that keeps me up most of the time."

Madison didn't comment when she saw him mechanically massage the multicolor lotus on his forearm. She wanted to cry and hold him in her arms. She didn't do so. She handed him back the photo he carefully put away in the notebook.

##

Dean had pricked his ears up, as Kevin and Charlie to hear his brother's story. He admired the synthesis, the almost clinical clarity with which Sam outlined the facts. He probably had learned that during his years at Stanford. To be specific, concise.

Yet Sam let aside a whole part of the story, one he probably had no desire to expose and Dean could understand. He spoke of Apple, his running away, and after a long silence, he began to talk about Jessica.

He had rarely mentioned her in the five years since her death. First, because the subject was too painful, and then because it was useless to reopen old wounds. He had written songs about her, for most too personals to go out of their leather book. He had a tattoo of her name on the knuckles and the magnolia that had been the favorite flower of the girl. But he had hardly ever talked about her.

"I wasn't a good guy when arriving at Stanford." Sam said. He had put his elbows on his knees, imprisoning Madison's ankles between his thighs and torso. He was looking at the ground as if the floor of the tourbus was a fount of memories.

"Jess, she was a good girl in every respect. She earned credits by volunteering at the administrative office, that's where I met her. I won't tell you the whole story, that'd be pointless. But she got me out of drunk tank way more often than you can imagine. I think the cops in Palo Alto knew us all in the end. She made me stop fighting in bars. Well almost, let's say that she improved me much. She thought that I was worth something and by dint I ended up believing it too."

Sam looked up to watch the young woman, he was nervously wringing his hands and she nodded slowly to motion him that she was still listening.

"It went on for my two years at Stanford. And I really fell in love with her. I had bought the ring, I wanted to marry her." He had a lump in his throat as Madison, and further in the bus, the others had lowered the TV sound so they could hear him. He didn't realize, deep in his memories.

"We were living together and an evening Dean broke into our home. I hadn't seen him since I had left home, and she convinced me to go out for a drink with him. It took us more than a drink to tell two years of life, and when we went back at the end of the night, there had been a fire."

Dean clenched his teeth when he heard his brother. They both remembered the firefighter sirens, the panic in the eyes of Sam discovering it was his building that was burning, his frantic search for Jessica among the survivors wrapped in blankets despite the blazing fire a stone's throw.

"She didn't make it." Sam said in a lower tone. He was now massaging the letters tattooed in white on his knuckles, one on each finger: J.E.S.S. "I have no memory of that day. They didn't want to let me see the body, not until the funeral parlor had taken care of her, and even after that... A burned body is never a pretty sight."

Madison nodded and moved closer to him. He had lowered his head so low that his forehead was almost touching his wrists. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders, waiting for a development that couldn't come. She had bent her knees, her ankles still trapped against Sam's stomach, and together they had to look like a strange sculpture in the frame of the bus' bunk beds.

"I don't even know how long I stayed prostrate. Dean called our father a few days later. We were under house arrest during the time of the police investigation and he didn't know how to get me out of my bed. The only answer he got from my father was that a man worthy of this name faces his problems alone."

Madison frowned.

"But he should have understood, I mean... You had just lost the love of your life!"

Sam turned to her with a thoughtful look. He had to twist his neck in an odd angle to see her and even then she had half her face hidden by his bangs. "You think Jess was the love of my life?"

"I think that tragically losing a still keen love is necessarily like losing the love of his life." She replied. "And whatever your father have thought, it was his role to be near you to get through this."

"Dean's the one who was near me. My father eventually talked to me."

"What did he say?"

"He said "Remember Apple"."

Madison didn't answer but she pursed her lips so hard that Sam didn't need much imagination to know what she was thinking. He felt her nails sink slightly in his shoulder as a supporting sign.

"And you did." It was a statement.

He nodded. "Shouldn't get attached to something you can lose." He said by gently pushing her in order to straighten up. She pulled away from him, enough to rest her feet on the ground.

"But everything can be lost. Things, people, life..."

"I know. So I don't attach myself to anything, this way whatever I lose it'll never be a tragedy again."

Madison pursed her lips. "Even Dean?"

Sam shook his head. "It's different, you can't stop loving someone you loved all your life."

"What about your drums?"

He shrugged. "What does it matter?"

"Your songs?"

"Once they're written, they don't matter."

"What about this?" Madison asked again, putting her hand on his arm over the lotus tattoo.

"Memories. Memories shouldn't matter either." He was talking very low now, as if telling his story had exhausted him.

"But they do."

He nodded, leaned against the back of the couch, closing his eyes. Madison was seeing again in her thoughts the tattoo in his upper back, where nobody could see it unless he wanted to. The shredded teddy bear, the big sew where its heart should have been and the phrase below. "_Duct tape and safety pins inside_."

That was how he was seeing himself and so he had chosen to be. She wanted to cry suddenly and realized that apart from the purring of the motor and the vibrations of the bus there was no sound around them. She caught Dean's eye beyond the short hallway leading to his own bunk. He slowly looked away. Seated next to each other, Kevin and Charlie turned their attention to the now nearly mute TV screen and one of them turned the sound up as to give them a moment of intimacy.

It was probably not the best thing to do, and she knew it. She could recognize a stupid decision when she was taking one, but this didn't stopped her from slipping between the wall and Sam's shoulder, moving her arms around him and laingy her head on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry." She said quietly. She didn't see his puzzled look, just felt him slightly moving an arm around her waist in a more comfortable position.

"It's not your fault."

"I'm sorry for making you talk about it. I probably shouldn't have."

"No. I think it makes some good to talk about it. Deep down."

The television had retrieved its normal volume and Madison wondered if it was justified to end their embrace, but Sam spoke again.

"I'd warned you that if you knew my story you'd feel obliged to comfort me with sex." He said in a half-amused tone. She laughed even though it was more awkward than fun.

"In fact you made all of this up just in this purpose, right?"

"Absolutely."

She closed her eyes, settle more comfortably against his shoulder and decided not to move. "There were simpler ways." She teased.

"I know. But simplicity isn't my thing."

They eventually joined the three others before the little television. She hold his hand and he didn't let go.

Later, at the next stop, she returned to her own bus and Charlie and Kevin slipped away for a nap. They were arriving to St. Louis. Dean and Sam were left alone in front of a television they didn't really watched anymore.

"You didn't told everything." Said the older.

Sam shrugged, eyes glued to the TV. "She doesn't need to know everything in one go."

"The others never knew."

"The others never asked."

Dean had an assent pout. Usually the girls who gravitated around Sam were more interested in his status or his physical than his life. Madison was clearly one of the exceptions.

"What you said, about your stays in jail..." The singer started without looking at his brother. "It wasn't you just behaving wrongly, or passing through your adolescent crisis. It was your way to become strong enough to run away."

Sam nodded. "And abandon you. And you know how much I'm sorry for that. I was thoughtless and selfish but I needed to go."

"I know. And no one's blaming you for that."

"I blame myself."

Dean smiled. "This little bro', reproaching myself for everything that's my job!"

Sam gave him a hit in the shoulder, looking at him for the first time of their conversation. "Nah, your job is to worry about me and getting my ass out of slammer." He joked.

"And telling you dad was wrong." Dean acquiesced. Sam returned him a puzzled look, his frown was making his piercing flicker. "He said "If you leave, don't ever come back", and he might really thought it but... If you do another bullshit, if you leave by slamming the door. I want you to know that I will leave it open so you can come back one day."

Sam said nothing for a moment, the forgotten TV produced a background noise which added to the purr of the engine and the bumps in the road.

"You should make a song about it." He finally said. Dean smiled.

"It's planned."

##

It was strange to see just how Castiel had become a part of their lives in a few years. It was as if he was part of the landscape, him being there or not. And knowing him in hospital curiously weighed on each of them. Kevin was unusually silent, Charlie had left her bass exercises that usually rocked them all during bus rides, Dean and Sam shared a grim and worried expression. They all jumped when Dean's phone rang in the late afternoon, a few miles from St. Louis.

The sound was raw and full of noises, and he put the speaker so loud that in the bus they heard the vague echo of hospital noises at the other end of the country. He didn't wonder if it was something Castiel didn't want to share with anyone else. The question didn't even crossed his mind. He was part of his family, all the people present in the bus, even Dorothy on the driver' seat, were part of his family. And they all had as much right as he had to know. They needed to.

He didn't know the voice that spoke and introduced herself as Dr. Talbot.

"I have good news for you Castiel."

Dean felt his heart clench curiously. As if he had so far managed to ignore the problem, to repress the anxiety deep deep down in himself and that it was resurfacing in the strangest moment possible.

"The scanners showed nothing, neither did the marrow biopsy. There are no signs of recurrence of leukemia."

She spoke with clarity and precision but Dean was wondering if he was really understanding the words coming out of the phone, wasn't the distance camouflaging abominable news under comforting words? Charlie had descended from her bunk and had put a hand on his shoulder that Dean took in his by habit.

"So what do I have?" Castiel asked hoarsely.

"A significant anemia, an incredible number of dietary deficiencies and a lung infection. Basically your body is exhausted like an old man's."

Dean imagined Castiel's puzzled frown.

"How come?" The singer asked, having totally forgotten the speaker on his phone.

"You tell me." Dr. Talbot snapped. "Castiel has just returned from a three week holiday with you. People are supposed to rest on vacation, not getting sick!"

Suddenly, Dean felt horribly guilty. He distinctly saw again the three weeks with Castiel, the little rest they had taken between bus trips, concerts and the nights shortened by the need they had of each other. He saw the fast foods, the more rare restaurants with still similar menus, breakfasts missed to stay in bed for another hour, dinners skipped in favor of a bottle of whiskey or an evening playing on the console Charlie carried with her everywhere. "It's my fault." He sighed, running a hand over his face. "The holidays were not particularly relaxing."

"If I had wanted to rest I would have done so!" Castiel snorted at the other end.

Everyone in the bus could imagine him looking daggers at them and the ornery look on his face they had all seen at least once. Dr. Talbot began to formulate a list of lifestyle rules to follow strictly from now on. The phone didn't retransmit Castiel's exasperated sigh but they were sure that there had been one.

Dean had expected waves of relief, that a weight left his chest. Yet nothing happened, his ears buzzing while the doctor indicated Castiel that she would prescribe him dietary supplements and antibiotics he needed and that he would have to come back for further tests next month. He remembered the concert nights the previous weeks, trying to imagine his own fatigue tenfold by the disease settling slowly to understand the feelings of his lover. He felt guilty for each of Castiel coughing fits of which he hadn't paid attention. Guilty for each minute of sleep he had deprived him, even guilty for not being able to lock him in a sterile bubble to protect him from all diseases of the earth. He had clenched his hand through his hair, elbows on knees, head lowered so much that his forehead was almost touching the table before him.

Charlie passed both arms around his neck and his chest and leaned forward over the seat back for laying a kiss on his temple.

"It's not your fault, Dean. Other than drugging his coffee no one could have forced him to spare himself." He smiled, eyes closed to not cry and Castiel nodded by a groan at the other end of the line. He was alive. He was going to live. It was nothing, nothing serious and they had all worried for nothing.

Before he cut the speaker, Sam and Kevin shouted their get well wishes and Charlie sent the young man kisses from her and Dorothy. She only let go of Dean, reluctantly, when the latter broke away from her embrace of a movement of the shoulders. With an apologetic smile he lifted the phone to his ear and she went away for share the news with Dorothy.

"How's the accountant?" The driver asked without taking her eyes off the road.

"Better than we feared. Lung infection, fatigue, anemia. Nothing a steak and a good pillow can fix, apparently."

Dorothy smiled, which curiously didn't soften her features. "I don't think he sleeps well without Dean."

Charlie shrugged and leaned in the seat, placing her bare feet on the dashboard. "I don't think he sleeps at all with Dean."

"I heard that!" The singer yelled, further in the bus.

"And I'm perfectly right!" She yelled back. The road was beginning to tuck of small houses as they approached the city. Later in the evening it would be a new hall, then another concert somewhere. Everything changed daily in their lives while remaining curiously similar, to the difference of the landscapes that bordered the roads.

"It's weird, when I met Castiel, I could have sworn he was fine." Charlie said quietly.

"He was." Dorothy pointed out.

"You know what I mean."

"I do. But you're wrong to think that he's different from the others." The driver replied with a slight smile.

"Why? Don't you think that having survived such a disease makes you different?"

"Every people you meet is struggling against something you have no idea about, Red. Often it's not visible, and no one talks about it, but everyone is fighting."

"You're fighting?" Charlie asked, turning her head toward her partner.

"Everyday."

"Against what?"

"What 'bout you?"

Charlie turned her attention to the road. "You dodged the question."

"As you did." Dorothy took her eyes off the road for a moment to smile at her and Charlie childishly stuck her tongue out at her.


	8. Chapter 8 : Sunflowers

**Chapter 8:** Sunflower

The evening was warm and humid, too much to stay locked inside the bus.

Most people who stayed outside the hall during the concert were roadies. A singing tour quickly becomes repetitive when you're not on stage and you don't necessarily want to hear it several nights in a row for almost a year. Most of those who stayed outside the tourbus waiting for the end of the show were smoking and talking in groups of three or four, sometimes sharing a beer or a late sandwich.

Dorothy didn't smoke. She already had too much difficulty in standing the smell of stale tobacco on her colleagues to imagine inflicting it to her permanently. Leaned against the bus of the band, she was watching people.

Most of those around her saw without bothering to watch. Dorothy knew which roadie was stuck with a cold for three days, which had a sick child, over there in Los Angeles where they were almost all from. She knew who had made bets on Sam and Madison, and who would be the first, after the tour, to sell anecdotes to the highest bidder tabloid. And all that she hadn't need to ask, she had just concluded, observed, analyzed.

For now, she was looking at Madison who was helping one of the youngest roadies to complete a crossword puzzle in the glow of a flashlight and the unpredictable car park lighting.

Dorothy never revealed to anyone the results of her observations, everyone was entitled to their privacy after all, but she was interested in Madison because the young woman was interested in Sam.

From her position at the wheel of the bus, for several months, Dorothy had come to know the Winchester brothers and to appreciate them.

She hadn't need extraordinary observation skills to find their relationship touching. If Sam had a tattoo of a wolf on his back it was because Dean always had his eyes on his little brother, ready to protect him if necessary. Fact that Dorothy thought very funny insofar as, of the two, Sam was the most impressive. She loved to hear them cast tasteless jokes from one end to the other of the bus and the way they had to set about playing music spontaneously together. This happened most of the time when they were only the two of them in the bus and then they would exchange in a low voice, words, ideas, lyrics of which Dorothy, behind her wheel, would sometimes catch a few echoes. She had been around the two boys well enough to have a fairly clear idea of their personalities. Without knowing their past and without be interested in it, she could see the gaping holes in their souls from which they got a music she found very sad.

Dorothy didn't like sad people. And Madison, tonight, was sad when she approached the driver by handing her a sandwich. She took it without saying a word and without great desire. They talked about unimportant things, without interest just to pass time. People were beginning to leave the hall, presaging the end of the concert and Madison started to think about the drums she'd have to disassemble and store very soon.

"It's not really the better idea to get attached to him, is it?"

"To Sam?" Dorothy asked as if she didn't already have the answer. Madison nodded. "He's not a bad person."

"How can you tell?" Madison laughed.

"He has sunflowers in his eyes."

Madison shot her a curious look and Dorothy smiled, crumpling the packing of her sandwich between her fingers.

"My grandmother said that people who have sunflowers in their eyes are always looking toward the sun, toward the good side of things, and that someone staring at the sun cannot be satisfied with their dark side."

"Your grandmother was a philosopher." Madison noticed, smiling.

"Or rather she has Amerindian ancestry. I guess it played a lot in her philosophy and what she taught me."

"Do you think he's dangerous?" Madison asked again staring at the people who were coming out of the theater in more or less compact groups. She had absolute confidence Dorothy's sincerity and observing skills, much more than in her own judgment which, history had shown was not a safety model.

The young woman took her time to answer, weighing every word to not harm Sam. She liked that kid. She liked the way he was fighting against himself to become a better person, the blind trust he had in his brother, and the kind gaze he had over the world most of the time. But there were things in both Winchester that Dorothy would have preferred being able to ignore. A large dark side that seemed to stick to their heels and bog the ground wherever they went and whatever they did. Quite honestly she couldn't paint an idyllic picture of Sam Winchester.

"I think he sees himself as dangerous, and he wants to protect the people he cares about from the threat he represents."

"What threat?"

"You heard his story. He thinks the people he becomes attached to will eventually suffer like him or because of him. He thinks that getting attached to people only leads to suffering."

"So he doesn't get attached."

Dorothy nodded. "He didn't tell you his whole story, there are things he hasn't said to you."

"Like what?" Madison asked.

"I don't know. I observe, I'm not psychic. But if you want to know if he's dangerous, if he might hurt you like Kurt, I think that's what you need to know."

"That's compatible with the sunflowers?" Madison to escape the oppressive topic.

Dorothy smiled. "People are complex. You can be someone good and optimistic and be plagued by your demons. Sam is a good person, except that him, he doesn't know that."

Madison was thinking about the words of her friend while disassembling drums and charging it an hour later in a hardware truck. She decided to chase these thoughts away from her head when returning to the hotel in the company of other roadies, tried to drown them in the shower, to suffocate them in her pillow, unsuccessfully. The same questions kept coming, the same futile and irrelevant interrogations until she faced the fact, in the middle of the night, that she wouldn't be able to sleep.

She put on her sweater and pants and went down to the lounge open 24/24, her socks produced only a vague rustling on the thick carpet. Some hotel guests were sharing an after-dinner liqueur with loudly laughs in a corner, and a bartender with a tired look served her on the counter a too hot tea she let cool, skimming one of the magazines hanging on all the coffee tables of the lounge.

"Insomnia?" Sam's voice asked while the drummer perched on the stool next to hers. She would have jumped if she hadn't been this much aware of his presence, she had heard him arrive to the muffled sound of his boots on the carpet and his presence was like the shadow of a big blanket. Elle nodded.

"Too much ideas tumbling out."

"Same here." He said by putting his old leather notebook on the counter. A pen whose top was all eaten dangled there, hung to one of the spirals by a roast string. The notebook had certainly seen better days. The leather cover was stained, scraped, bent and folded in odd angles. Yet Sam passed his hand on with a sort of incongruous respect before opening it where a bookmark made of an old Brazilian bangle with colors faded for having been worn too much indicated the last song written.

Madison swallowed the first sip of her tea, distractedly turning the pages of her magazine, noting here and there a perfumery article she would try once back in LA. Sam had sprawled as usual on the counter, his head resting on his bent elbow, tapping nervously the pen on the paper of the notebook.

"Not inspired?" Madison asked, turning toward him.

"I am. But I don't have the words. Nor the music." He sighed, straightening up. He pulled the magazine of the young woman to him and burst into a laugh. "_Breast: objective pleasure_? Seriously Mads?"

She frowned, smiling over her cup of tea. "It's not like I had written it!"

"That'd be all I needed! I hope you don't need that to educate yourself!" He teased by frankly pulling the coated paper to him. He put his elbows on the counter, cheeks in his hands, his shoulders lifted in an odd angle to read the article aloud, pausing regularly to laugh. Madison was laughing between sips of tea and she suspected him of trying to make her laugh while drinking so she would choke. When he returned the magazine, she realized that the obsessive thoughts had left for a while, that since he was close to her she just felt her mind in peace.

And it was at that moment, when he looked up at her, his face half hidden by his long bangs that she saw them, deep in his eyes, just a flash of yellow around the pupil, like two sunflowers on the green background so clear that it seemed blue or gray depending on the light.

She must have looked particularly silly because he stopped laughing of a sudden. "Something's wrong?" He asked as if he was already reproaching himself for his last joke.

"Dorothy was right..." Madison whispered. She moved aside the bangs from Sam's eyes to look at them more carefully.

"About what?"

She was looking from so close that she had to guess that he was smiling at his eyes wrinkling.

"You do have sunflowers in your eyes."

She suddenly realized that she still had her hand on his cheek and she was standing close enough to feel the laundry smell of his shirt. She swiftly stepped aside praying very hard not to blush (who blushed after fifteen years old?), and took a sip of tea to put up a front. Sam was smiling with all his dimples and pushed the leather notebook to her.

"I think you got something." He said while standing up before laying the pen on the blank page. She looked down at his hand, the one on which he had tattooed Jess' name. She didn't see him lean over and jumped when he laid a small kiss on her cheek.

"Good writing Mads. Good night."

When her heart finally stopped to pound wildly, he was gone. She still had the notebook in front of her. She set about writing.

##

The next concert was at Madison and Sam had had a lot of fun all day, teasing the young woman that she has a city named like her.

"And a movie too." She eventually said, exasperated, at the end of the day. "And a siren. And a street in approximately every city... Now if you're done taking the piss out of me I got work to do!" She grumbled. Sam raised his hands in the air and let her unload equipment while he was going in search of someone else to annoy. Life on tour was much less exciting after a year and they were all starting to get tired of restaurants food, hotel rooms or sleeping curled up in the tourbus bunks. Just a few months earlier, they'd have go out exploring the city before the concert and party after. But now they all had only one desire, to go home and sleep.

Kevin probably more than any other.

Sam found him revising his scores in the tourbus. He was missing a note every other time and seemed preoccupied.

"Something's wrong kiddo?" Sam asked, perching on the small table of the bus where the cellist sat. Kevin raised his bow from the strings thoughtfully.

"Don't you have anyone else to bother?" He gnashed.

Sam shook his head with a happy grin. "Charlie's with Dotty, Dean vanished and Madison just sent me packing."

"Seems to please you."

Sam shrugged. "You didn't answer me."

"Everything's okay." Kevin lied. Sam could always see when his friend was lying because he always avoided his gaze.

"Yeah, but still?"

Kevin sighed and shrugged, turning a page of his score before resting his bow on his instrument. For a moment, only whole and high notes disrupted the silence. Sam sat on his bunk.

"You know, you should tell her."

Kevin raised his eyebrows in question. "The girl. You should tell her you love her. Life is short."

The young man grinned almost as unpleasantly as his good nature would permit. "You had a sudden revelation?" He teased.

"Not sudden." Sam replied quietly. "But I don't know if you saw my brother lately? He's been afraid of losing Castiel. Damn I was afraid of losing him too. It makes you reflect, to think that life is very short in the end. What do you risk telling her that you love her? It's not as if you saw her every day."

Kevin put his bow on the table.

"Unlike you and Madison."

"I'm not in love with Madison."

"Not yet." Kevin had spoken in the tone of observation and Sam looked at him, puzzled, for a moment. The conversation he thought he was leading so far had just turned against him and he wondered to what extend the young man was right?

What barrier was left to cross before feeling for Madison the same as for Jessica? How had he come to love his girlfriend much so that even dead he still considered her as such? And how could he come to love someone else? He stood for a moment in silence, nose wrinkled in a confused facial expression which greatly amused Kevin.

"As I said. It's not that simple, Sam."

"Of course it is."

The young man got up to catch the bag of his cello and store it inside. He hauled the instrument on his shoulder and turned to his friend. "No, it's very complicated and very dangerous on the contrary. But if you want to prove me that I'm wrong, then please do."

Sam watched him getting off the bus, wondering if he had said something wrong again? There still remained three hours before the concert and he had nothing better to do except maybe hitting his drumsticks on every flat surface but the desire was missing. He moved on Kevin's still hot seat and pulled out the leather notebook from its storage under one of the cushions of the bunk before opening it where Madison had left the bookmark when she had returned it a few hours earlier. She'd looked even more tired than usual, her eyes so deep in her eye sockets, complexion so pale that she seemed almost dead. She also would reach the end of the tour with relief.

He was surprised to find a full song on a double-page spread in the notebook. The paper had been crossed out out beyond belief, but the final words were clearly detached from trials and errors. She had named the song "_Sunflower_". The rhymes weren't very good and Sam had to retype the song in pencil on a new page before going back over sentence by sentence. He tried not to notice that the song was about him. He was used to it. Almost all the songs written by Dean were about him.

But this time it was different, and this time it meant something Sam didn't want to hear. Madison had written, clearly imitating the dark style of Free Will's lyrics. She had written about him and for him. It showed two levels of attachment to which Sam refused to think while he went back over, word by word the lyrics written by a foreign hand and while a rhythm was forming in his mind.

He felt Dean entering the bus more than heard him, guessed the slight "thump" of his brother's phone thrown on his bunk and his heavy steps along the corridor of the bus.

"New song?" The singer asked, sitting in front of him. Sam nodded. His hair fell into his eyes, but he didn't want to lose his concentration, the words had something obvious, they began to flow with a frenzy that he adored. They overflowed from his pen, from his page, flew between his fingers, froze in his head like the obviousness of something that you always had right in front of your eyes without ever actually watching it.

He gestured to Dean to bring him his drumsticks and the singer recovered his guitar in the closet at the same time. He settled half on the table and waited for Sam to give him the beat.

Sometimes, the music came by itself, they started to play together, recording themselves out of principle. Most often their improvised compositions were second-rate. Sometimes they were fantastic. Once in a while it was the words that came first. Before the beat, before the guitar notes, before Charlie adds the bass that underpinned the whole, before Kevin improves the composition with his strings.

Sometimes it was the rhythm that came first, driving them on the way to a new song on which they put the lyrics, just as a matter of principle.

This time, it was different. This time, when Dean turned the notebook to him, it was the emotion that came first. Just as the day Sam had written "_The Woman in White_" and as it hadn't happened to them since. The words were from a foreign hand, round and hasty letters, unusual sounding. And Dean smiled. Because it wasn't hard to know who could have written a song about Sam. Apart from himself, he had never met anyone who has as much affection for his brother.

"_They say, people with sunflower eyes_

_Always look at the bright side._

_I know a man with sunflower eyes_

_And he's good and kind,_

_And can't stop telling lies_"

It would be a sweet song, one that'd be sung with minimal light, a symbolic accompaniment. A few guitar bars barely supporting the lyrics, just for them to be listened to and heard. Dean settled the guitar on his thigh and held his sticks to Sam who sat up on the bench and began to hit a slow rhythm on the table.

"_He thinks he's a freak_

_'Cause someone broke his heart beyond return_

_And he was just a kid,_

_And he crashes and burn_

_Every minute of every day_

_I should keep him away_"

Across the margin, Madison had scribbled three sentences that didn't rhyme, and she had clearly not managed to include them to the song. Dean pointed them with the chin to his brother who nodded. "A repetitive pattern in background?" He suggested, still beating time.

"A woman's voice." Sam agreed.

Dean began to mumble the words for himself while swinging his head to the rhythm imposed by Sam, drumming on the table.

"_How can you run from what's inside you?_

_Maybe there's no escape?_

_Maybe you could be saved?_"

Dean changed the chords to find some notes supporting the three sentences while Sam took out his phone from his pocket and laid it on the table to record them.

The creation process was underway and neither would stop playing before having completed the song, driven by a frenzy of rhythms and sounds in which they barely noticed Charlie's bass until the young woman leans back onto the bunk next to them, smiling. The bass sound of her instrument came underlie Dean's guitar and he began to play a tone lower so they could tune up. Charlie wasn't looking at the words, she was just following the rhythm of her friends, and gradually the sound of the chorus formed between the three of them.

"_I wanna know what's behind sunflower eyes_

_Loudest people are the most secret ones_

_I wanna know the truth behind the lies_

_And raise your head toward the sun_"

Dean was still humming mid-voice, stumbling over the rhythmic, mentally noting the words that should be changed, reworked. He caught Charlie's gaze who nodded gently, smiling. There was an indescribable atmosphere in the bus, something between exaltation and excitement that made them want to smile and bounce up and down. Dean sight-read the rest of the song without ceasing to align the chords, his fingers tensed on the neck of the guitar.

"_Kindest persons are the broken ones_

_For they don't want to hurt anyone_

_Saddest people smile the brightest_

_I've been told it's because they don't want to see people_

_Suffer as much as them_."

They had the music, they continued to play just to prolong the moment of grace that they knew wouldn't return. Even when later they would look into writing tablatures, even when they would record the song, even when they would play it on stage dozens of times, this very time right now was going to end and nothing would recreate it.

"Neither of you wrote that." Charlie said, clutching her bass against her, still backed against the bunks. Dean shook his head.

"Madison wrote it."

"You lent her the notebook?" The bassist choked. "Are you kidding me? I'm not even allowed to touch it!"

Sam shrugged, shoved the book and his brother to put his legs across the small table. Dean considered the song thoughtfully while Sam stopped the recording and played it again. The sound was a bit saturated, a little disturbed by the regular tap tap of Sam's drumsticks on the table where he had laid the phone, but still distinct and while listening to it he found himself closing his eyes and smile.

"This is different from what we composed so far." He said softly, his head thrown back as if that could help him to better immerse himself in the song. Dean nodded, but on reflection it wasn't different from their usual compositions. What changed were the songs once the record company had edited them to make them "good," "sales-orientated". _Sunflower _had something naive that their compositions had lost the last two years since they had signed to a label. It was all genuine feeling and all three carefully avoided to raise the subject, knowing that at best it would make Sam uncomfortable. Dean put his guitar down and looked at his brother until this one reopens his eyes and questions him by a raised eyebrow.

"We won't give them this one."

"Sorry?"

"This song." Dean said, indicating the notebook. "It's for you, it's yours and nobody else but you should have the right to change it. We won't give it to Crowley. Or anyone else, we won't play it, you keep it for yourself. At least for now."

Sam nodded slowly. They both looked to Charlie who pretended to sew her mouth.

"_I know a man with sunflower eyes._

_Kind and sad_

_And I want him to look at the bright side_."


	9. Chapter 9 : Reborn

**Warnings: **Swearing, mention of killing

* * *

**Chapter 9:** Reborn

After each concert, the same throbbing pain came back into Charlie's shoulder where the strap of the bass notched her neck and weighed too heavily on her collarbone. She refused to take painkillers and always spent a long time in the shower to relieve her tense muscles, playing along with her hands under the warm water to ease the tension. Gradually the water relaxed her and its sound soothed the hissing in her ears. Despite ear protectors, some nights, her eardrums suffered from the music and their whistle accompanied her as she fell asleep. Dorothy was waiting her, sitting on the bed and Charlie curled up in her arms with relief. She had removed her make-up hastily and probably looked like a panda's carcass. Dorothy smelled like amber and sandalwood, an odor that Charlie, after a year, associated with calm and peace. Not that having an almost secret relationship with the young woman has anything of calm or peaceful.

The shower had left her strangely languid and she closed her eyes lazily while Dorothy sat behind her to massage her sore shoulder. The very first time they had touched each other, it had been through this intermediary. Dorothy's warm hands on her skin cut a little by her instrument. Everything had been really fast thereafter, neither had seen any profit in flirting around for months when they could find each other right away. Things had been clear from the start: they wouldn't talk about it, would hide if it became necessary and would keep it for themselves. No one needed to know what Charlie was doing behind closed doors and she didn't want anyone to feel allowed to give their opinion on the subject. Dean had agreed when she had told him. He himself took great care to preserve Castiel in a secret corner of his life, a place where his status as a rocker wouldn't come to disturb the young man and it was exactly what Charlie had intended to do with Dorothy. They wouldn't appear in public together, wouldn't make a spectacle of themselves and their relationship would only belong to them. It was easy on tour, when they shared the same room and the same bus for months. Perhaps things would change once returned to Los Angeles, but the bassist preferred not to think about it. It was a problem she would handle when she would be confronted to it, not before.

Dorothy crooned while massaging her, in a low, guttural voice, in a language that Charlie didn't understand.

"A healing song?" She asked, almost amused. She felt the young woman's long hair brushing her back when she nodded.

"My grandmother was Cherokee. She taught me some incantations." She said.

"You've been talking about her for a year now." Charlie said, softly lying on her stomach to let her partner the time to adjust to her new position. "Would you introduce us next time we're in Oklahoma?"

Dorothy did not stop her massage, simply leaned over Charlie to lay a kiss on her cheek despite the odd angle their necks.

"If she agrees to." She said before standing up.

"You're not staying?" The bassist asked, seeing her put on her jacket. Dorothy shook her head and leaned back on her for a kiss, on her lips this time.

"I'll return in the night, for now, I have something to do. Rest up, I'll wake you when I'm back." She promised. Charlie rested her head on the pillow with a sigh.

"You always do that, you know."

"What then?" Dorothy asked, pulling a jacket on, a hand already on the door handle. Charlie was beginning to fall asleep and it's with a voice muffled by the pillow that she replied.

"Leaving unexpectedly, promising to return. You always do that."

"I always come back."

"Huhum."

Dorothy smiled, seeing her falling asleep suddenly like an exhausted child. She turned out the light and closed the door softly behind her to not wake the bassist.

She wondered why she was doing that. What was driving her to meddle like that in the life of someone else than herself? What right had she to want to teach something to Dean? She didn't know, but when handing him a borrowed helmet, late in the night she had a strong sense of doing the right thing.

He hadn't really protested when she had offered a night trip by motorbike, just gave off a whistle of admiration on seeing the black Triumph she had borrowed from a friend.

"If I had a baby like that I wouldn't lend it to anyone!"

"My friends trust me to take care of their babies." She replied by buckling her helmet. "You entrust me your life for a ride?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really."

Dean smiled and slipped on his helmet, struggling with the closure system before straddling the bike to sit behind Dorothy.

"Where are we going Chief?"

"No idea."

Dorothy had learned to drive motorcycles shortly before the cars. She remembered her grandfather explaining her the different pieces until she knew them by heart before letting her press the starter. She remembered the wrinkles that crinkled his eyes as he smiled, a hand stabilizing the machine while she cautiously moved forward into the driveway under the worried look of her grandmother. The road had become synonymous with freedom. The wind that slapped her face was waking her up as if every moment spent locked, away from the engine's vibrations was like being buried alive. She was smiling under his helmet, feeling the road under the tires, the weight of the bike between her legs, the firmness of the handle between her gloved hands and slowly twisted the handle, enjoying the slight drop of thrust each time she engaged a higher speed. She was going too fast, as the speedometer indicated her and as did the car headlights she overtook by zigzagging. It was a heady sensation, but still not enough. She quickened again, squinting, bending over the handlebars for a better control of the bike. Dean gripped her hips and leaned toward her reflexively, shouting something that her helmet deadened and that she didn't even try to understand. The road unrolled its ribbon of asphalt stitched white lines swallowed by the tires at breakneck speed and Dorothy smiled while pushing the engine as much as she could. The bike was screaming like the horns around them and she tightened her hands a little harder on the handlebars. She could almost hear her grandmother yelling at her to slow down and to be careful with this thing!

She noticed a sign, half a second before it disappears behind her, and violently turned off on the left without putting on her turn signal. A car slammed on the brakes and she heard both the screams of the driver and Dean's invectives who gave her a blow on the helmet to get her attention. She pulled over in the parking lot of a diner and put her feet on the ground, barely realizing that the tank on which she laid her hands was boiling from their race. She removed her helmet with a small delighted "Woow". "She's gutsy!" She commented, absent-mindedly stroking the tank between her knees.

"You're fucking crazy!" Dean shouted while getting down from the bike, legs trembling. "You know how many times you've nearly killed us?"

"A lot I hope." She replied by taking in hand the handlebar to steer the front wheel while with her heel she dislodged the kickstand from its notch. She wedged the bike, turned off the ignition and took off her helmet.

"You're going to tell me what all of that means?" He grouched, pushing the door of the diner with his elbow. There was no way he touches the greasy handle with bare hands, this thing was probably more full of germs than the old jars full of God knew what that lied for months in the small fridge in the tourbus and he had risked his life well enough for the week.

"Yes, but not right now, I think you still need one or two elements to understand what I have to say." She laughed. She dragged him to a table and gestured to the tired waitress. They were served burgers, fries and coffee that Dean accompanied with about his weight in water. His hands had stopped shaking and from this side of the hellish ride, it didn't seem so terrible.

"Better?" Dorothy asked by picking in her fries while he emptied the rest of his drink. He nodded.

"Almost better than sex." He said in a voice that he was surprised to find so clear considering the condition in which he was less than an hour ago. Dorothy smiled and held him his helmet.

"Ready for the ride back cowboy?"

"Don't ever call me like that again." He mumbled by following her outside of the fast food.

"As you wish Cowboy."

He rolled his eyes and clung to her hips as she started the Triumph. She brought them safely to the hotel at a little more reasonable speed this time, but only because he hit on her helmet each time she pretended to exceed the speed limit. Just before he slips the magnetic card into the door reader, she put a hand on his shoulder.

"How are you feeling?"

She had deep eyes and at that time, full of what could the most look like empathy in her. But with such black eyes it was hard to really read anything in it and Dean shrugged.

"Good. Curiously good considering you failed to kill me twice in the last three hours." He said.

"This is how Castiel feels. Whenever he sees you."

Dean looked up at her with surprised eyes, the card still above the optical scanning, his jacket in one hand, his borrowed helmet to the arm.

"This feeling of having escaped death. Gratefulness and relief, the feeling that the world belongs to you again now that you're not scared anymore? That's what he feels when he sees you, when he thinks about you, when he's with you."

Dean shook his head. "He's wrong. I'm not some kind of panacea. I'm just a guy who can't even be bothered to do anything else than songs."

Dorothy shrugged. "He doesn't care. He loves you."

"He loves me more than I deserve." Dean sighed. He shook his head to clear the vision of Castiel in his hospital bed.

"Obviously."

He frowned at her harsh tone. She had crossed her arms and had leaned against the wall. "But apparently he doesn't care. I hope you're grateful to him."

Dean smiled and finally opened the door. "Very, and I intend to prove it to him when I'll see him next time."

"Do I really want to hear that?" She asked, frowning.

"Oh certainly!" Dean laughed. "But that'll stay between him and I." He handed her the helmet with a smirk. "Is that what you wanted to tell me? That he feels that whenever he sees me?"

"All the time. He feels that all the time actually." Dorothy corrected by lazily detaching herself from the wall.

Dean smiled, the corners of his mouth a little heavy with fatigue. "How can you tell?"

She smiled. "I can recognize people who love each other. You just have to watch."

She returned to her room, ears still ringing of the bike's roar after wishing a good end of night to Dean. She didn't turn on the light, just put the two helmets on a chair and removed her jacket and shoes before sneaking between the sheets next to Charlie. The young woman opened her tired eyes and leaned back on her pillow, her shoulder and hip touching Dorothy's.

"You did everything you needed to?" She asked at mid-voice.

"I think so."

"Wanna go to the beach tomorrow?"

"There's no beach in this State, Charlie."

"Oh."

And with this simple observation, the young woman curled up against her and plunged into a sleep she hadn't really left. Dorothy had more trouble falling asleep, behind her closed eyelids she saw Dean's thoughtful face. "_How can you tell?_"

She had not answer the exact truth. Of course, one look to Castiel was sufficient to realize how much he loved Dean. But what she saw in the young man was more than that. It was a sense of security in terrified eyes that she had seen only once before. In the mirror.

She curled around Charlie, one arm around the bare shoulders of the girl who still smelled massage oil, one leg slid between her partner's and waited for her regular breath to bring her sleep.

##

Something was happening and Sam couldn't determine how or why. It was one of those rare times when they had three consecutive days off. Dean had left early to catch a plane to California and Sam and Kevin had hung around during half of the morning in the hotel lobby without seeing any traces of Charlie nor Dorothy.

They had gone back in their room, had played video games (was this console still really belonging to Charlie? Kevin seemed to have the exclusive use) until the late hour obliges them to almost follow one another in the shower and dress properly (this notion was a very random variable depending on whether one was talking about the drummer or the cellist).

When Sam came out of the shower looking for a clean shirt, Kevin was on the phone and he was stammering. Kevin never stammered. He was a kid who had been to Princeton, who read dead and unknown authors to calm down before the concerts, who had an incredible ability to be loved by almost everyone. Sam stopped in the middle of the room and began to silently dripping on the carpet, listening to him. The young man hadn't seen him.

"In two weeks." Kevin was saying in the handset. "Of course. If you still live in the same place, I'll send you invitations for you and your boyfriend."

Kevin smiled a half-second later. "For you and Sarah then." He said, nodding for himself. Sam smiled and raised his thumb in the air, Kevin finally saw him and gave him a wink while Sam murmured a "Well played kiddo."

The young man didn't see his friend leave, busy listening Channing chirping him everything he had missed since his last visit in Michigan. Her familiar voice was something comforting and Kevin laid down on his bed, closing his eyes when he realized he hadn't been aware so far that he needed to be comforted. Even after months, talking with Channing was simple and obvious, like slipping into an attic where you'd have spent your childhood, nose in the dirt playing to be scared.

He smiled.

"You don't say anything." Channing said.

"I'm listening to you."

"I talk too much, sorry." She apologized. Even after so long, he remembered her mannerisms, the way her cheeks darkened when she blushed, looking down, hiding behind her squared cut straight hair.

"No." He said without dropping his smile. "No that's perfect, please continue. Mom doesn't tell me things as well as you do."

Sam had closed the door behind him after making sure to have slipped his magnetic card in his pocket which was a significant progress for him. Charlie and Dorothy were God knew where and obviously the rest of the roadies had taken advantage of their day off to vanish into thin air. The weather was pleasantly mild and Sam decided it was the perfect day to indulge in his favorite activity. One thing he used to do with Jess and that the death of the girl hadn't ruined for him. He had headphones on him but didn't turn on the MP3 player he had in his pocket. The headphones would prevent him from being interrupted, but he wanted to hear the sound of the city. Each place where he had been during that last year had its own sound, its own source of inspiration and this one was no exception to the rule. The muffled sound of conversations of the people who brushed in passing, traffic noise and barking dogs formed a strange cortege while his steps lose him a little more in the unfamiliar streets. He eventually pushed the door of a cafe and sat on a seat near the window. From there he could look at the passerby and imagine a life to them. He had spent hours playing it with Jess. It wasn't that funny to do it alone and had gradually converted Kevin (the kid was very good to this exercise) and Charlie. Dean and Dorothy remained firmly impervious to it.

Sam loved the smell of coffee and ongoing customer conversations, the clatter of glasses arranged hastily, waiters who sometimes shouting orders. It was an ideal back sound to concentrate. Dean had taken the leather notebook to LA and when Sam would want to write he knew he would have to do it on the sheets folded in four in the back pocket of his jeans. He ordered a coffee with cream and too much sugar and leaned more comfortably in the seat, elbows on the table, legs stretched out before him to watch people walk down the street. A blonde girl doing jogging, almost dragged by a big golden retriever she held in leash. A group of young executives, leather satchel in hand, askew tie walking with an important look that made him think of Castiel when he came home from work. Without really thinking, he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Dean's number while taking his first sip of coffee.

"Hey, your flight went well?"

"As well as possible considering I've just spent hours in a scrap thing weighing several tons perched in the air maintained by strictly zilch!" Dean grumbled from California where Sam imagined him clutching his phone and frowning in a sign of discomfort. The drummer muffled a laughter.

"How's Cas?"

"Better. Tired and says that anything's better than the hospital food, and I'm pretty sure he prepares a plot to get me to eat sushi."

"Sushi are very good."

"That's raw fish Sam!"

Sam smiled. "Doesn't mean it's gross, the Japanese eat them for centuries!"

"Yeah well I'm not Japanese!"

This time Sam laughed frankly of bad faith of his brother. They talked for a few minutes until Dean cut him short in the middle of a sentence.

"Sam, I'm gonna hang up."

"Why? Did I say something wrong?"

"No, but there's a guy who just entered the room and who seems to come straight out of a very good porn and I don't think you're ready to hear what follows Sammy."

Sam laughed at the other end of the line while Dean made a gesture to invite Castiel to approach the sofa on which he was sitting.

"Have fun, dirty old man." The youngest said just before hanging up. Dean threw the phone on the coffee table before moving his arms around Castiel's hips and lifting his shirt to lay a kiss on the still damp skin of his stomach.

"That, is not yours." He said by running a finger in the ring that adorned the large leather wristbands that his lover was wearing on each wrist. "Does Sam knows you pinch his stuff?"

"I borrowed them."

"Oh yeah?" Dean's smile had something predatory as he stood. "Maybe I should use them. You know, tie you to the bed, make of you whatever I want."

Castiel smiled and wrapped his arms around the shoulders of his lover. "It is more decorative than for real bondage you know."

"It's not like you were going to struggle anyway."

"Are you going to kiss me or not?" The young man grumbled, rolling his eyes.

"Maybe, if you're good."

Castiel's smile widened even more. "If the wristbands have this effect on you, I can't wait to see what will happen when you'll discover what I have planned for tonight."

Suddenly, fatigue and stress of the trip were a distant memory and Dean made a mental note to buy new wristbands to Sam. Because there was no chance that they leave Castiel's arms until about ten or twelve years. He was even willing to endure sushi for what he had planned this evening. "Don't be in such a hurry!" Dean groaned trying to catch his lover's face in his hands to kiss him.

"I'm not in a hurry." Retorted the other by rapidly freeing himself to push him up to the bed. Dean rolled his eyes and let him literally tear his pants, taking his underwear in the same movement. "I'm just not very patient." Castiel continued, crawling on him to join their lips, his whole body pressed against Dean's, pinning him against the mattress with all his weight.

"Understatement." The singer said while unbuckling the belt of his lover, the friction of the denim against his crotch quickly becoming unbearable. "The whole world is more patient than you." He teased.

Castiel sat up, a knee on either side of the bare hips of his lover, and looked at him for a moment with these fixed eyes that wouldn't blink as long as he wouldn't have decided and made Dean feel uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable and excited. Because what was in Castiel's eyes had nothing to do with impatience or a simple desire. Dean had taken years to put the word 'love' in it and even now he avoided to think too hard about it. For now there was still restraint Castiel's gestures, a tenderness that was struggling to flush under the pressing need he had to possess his lover and that would quickly disappear. But during the few seconds that Castiel took to look at him, lying between the pillows, in his eyes there was a kind of happy and blissful veneration of which Dean would have made a symphony if he'd been able to.

"The whole world doesn't have you under them. Naked moreover."

Dean smiled, his ability to sarcasm would soon end up reduced to not much, and he'd enjoy it as long he still could. "I hope for the whole world they doesn't have someone desperately dressed above them. Because it's frustrating." Castiel chuckled and leaned over to kiss him again, move his arms under the back of the singer and gently turn him on the stomach. He leaned over him until his lips brush his ear.

"For what I intend to do, I don't need to remove my clothes."

Dean groaned a disagreement smothered by the pillows which Castiel didn't take into account. The young man began to trace with his fingertips the line of Dean's shoulders, touching the lily tattooed on one of them. He wondered every time what would be the tattoo that would extend the flames on his shoulder blade? Then he laid a line of kisses along his spine, enjoying the smooth texture of the skin under his lips, and finally put his hands in small of the back of his lover. Where two revolvers crisscrossed on a bed of roses. The gesture had the knack of making Dean being thrilled and Castiel was convinced that he had unintentionally been tattooed on an erogenous zone (so far nothing had disabused him). He followed of the tip of the nail the outline of the Beretta and the one of the Colt's grip, then drew random shapes on his hips. He could hear Dean's sighs, see the shivers that ran through his body and were starting to make him tremble.

"You're imagining an extension?" The singer asked, his face buried between his arms crossed.

"I've been thinking about it for years." Castiel said softly, drawing symbols on his skin with his fingertips, just strong enough to leave a red mark for a few seconds.

"What's the result?"

"Nothing good for now." The young man replied, leaning again to lay a kiss on the tattoo. He avoided saying it because he knew its meaning, but the words "_Ask_" and "_Tell_" artistically stamped on the barrels of the guns were what he preferred all over the body of Dean Winchester. For one reason or another, it was that which had the most profound resonance for him. And that was why he always, always started by touching him at this place, as if he feared that the connection between them wouldn't be if he didn't give in to his own ritual. "Meanwhile..." He said by abandoning the tattoo in favor of the rest of the back of the singer. "I intend to make you say and ask a lot of things."

Dean gave a satisfied groan. Neither of them had planned to get out of bed for the next two days. They had the time. For once.

##

Madison's room wasn't closed when Sam went back to the hotel later in the day, he could hear her sing from the corridor. Amused, he pushed the door with the tips of fingers, ready to leave quickly if he was facing a show that he wasn't supposed to see. She was dancing while packing her suitcase. Actually she was dancing much more than she was folding her clothes and Sam leaned against the doorframe, smiling, and arms crossed waiting for her to realize his presence. It could take a while because she had headphones on and was dancing with eyes closed.

"_It crawled under my skin_

_Broke my bones_

_Crushed them with my sins_

_And let me buried in the ground_."

Sam frowned. He knew the song, Dean had written it and they had recorded it for a demo a few years ago. It didn't appear on any of their albums and as far as he knew, no one else than them and Bobby knew the song. But obviously, Madison had already heard it numerous times because she was perfectly in time with the music that Sam remembered only vaguely.

"_Wasn't I dead yesterday?_

_Your voice, louder than thunder_

_Found me, tracked me like a hunter_

_Wasn't I dead yesterday?_"

Madison had her hands on the headphones, a concentrated look, and inspired as Sam hadn't seen her for a long time. It would have been very funny if he hadn't had the nagging feeling that there was something important in this scene. He remembered the lyrics, he remembered the moment when Dean's pen had landed on a blank page of the leather book and had begun to trace the words one after the other. He had had the same concentrated look as Madison at that moment as she raised her fists in the air, and resumed her dancing to her suitcase, a t-shirt in her free hand.

"_This is me now_

_This is a new beginning_

_Standing, rising, fighting_

_Just tell me how?_"

He knew what the song meant for him, for Dean, and for Castiel who had participated in the writing even if he denied it. He didn't know what Madison saw in it. He basically didn't know what anyone saw in their music. They did their best but he'd have had to be much more pretentious than he was to imagine that they were particularly good. And they only talked about their lives, their emotions. How, why so many people identified with it was a mystery to him that he wasn't seeking to elucidate.

Madison eventually saw him and started violently, stifling a cry of surprise.

"You could knock!" She yelled, removing her headphones that she squeezed against herself.

"I could have taken the door off without you to hear me!"

She winced and put everything she had in her hands on the bed. "What brings you here?". He shrugged.

"I heard a noise. How do you know this song?"

Madison seemed embarrassed for a moment and looked down. "Castiel passed it to me before leaving. I must have listened to it about two hundred times in two weeks."

Sam smiled. "Did I just discover your favorite song?"

"Of Free Will, yes. But it's not my favorite among all."

"What'd be your favorite?"

She shook her head. "You're going to make fun of me so I won't tell you."

Sam chuckled softly. "I'll end up knowing you know."

"No."

"Yes."

"You're unbearable."

He helped her packing her suitcase and as usual their discussion led them much later than they would have thought. When they realized the time, night had fallen and Madison was hungry but had no desire to leave her room.

"You have an entire city to explore in three days and you just wasted your first day!" Sam said.

"I didn't take this job to explore the cities, I've lived all my life in LA and I still get lost over there!" She grumbled, crossing her arms. They were both sprawled on the small couch in the hotel room she shared with another roadie. Sam could have occupy all the space alone and she regularly pushed with her foot to keep her place. He said nothing for a moment and then "Pizza?"

She nodded. "And a very bad movie to pass the time."

"If you want me to watch a bad movie I need beer!"

She pointed the built-in fridge with her thumb. "Two packs here."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "What did you expect? We're roadies, beer is sacred!" She commented, rising to get drinks and glasses for good measure while he searched on his phone how to get delivered pizzas in this town. The operation took him enough time for Madison have found the video on demand.

"This one!" Sam said, pointing to the screen on which was displayed the trailer of a film. She raised her eyebrows but said nothing while he placed his order.

"Seriously, "_The Bridges of Madison County_"? You didn't find anything lousier as a joke?" She grumbled.

"Hey! My joke is lousy but the movie's good! The pizza will be there in half an hour."

She handed him her beer for him to open it. Weeks stacking boxes of equipment had built her, but she'd probably be part her whole life of the people unable to uncap a bottle with bare hands.

When the pizza arrived, they had finished their first beer and Robert Redford was installing his photographic equipment near a river.

"Cas takes photos." Sam said before starting his first slice. They hadn't use the glasses and Madison hadn't bothered to pick up plates knowing that they would eat directly from the box. After all, eating a pizza with anything else than the fingers fell under sacrilege. "Dean gave him a camera last year."

"How are his photos?"

"No idea, he refuses to show them to me and I'm not even sure he shows them to my brother."

Three beers, two pizzas and almost a movie later, they were both fists clenched on their knees begging Meryl Streep to get off the car to follow the love of her life. As if they hadn't already seen the movie a dozen times between them, and as if their pleas could have any effect on the end. Naturally that didn't work out. They fell on the couch while the credits began and remained silent until the end. Sam was jingling his fingernails against the glass of his bottle.

"You know" Madison said thoughtfully. "I was expecting something else by slogging with a rock band."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, sex, drugs, more scandal, more paparazzi, a little less rides and repetition I guess."

Sam smiled. "You didn't think we were really working in the music world, admit it."

She shook her head wallowing on the couch. Alcohol was pleasantly relaxing her. "Guilty. And ultimately I end up with people whose motto is "Don't do anything illegal"... How did it come to you?"

Sam also wallowed on the sofa, arms crossed, legs outstretched on the chair he had pulled in front of him. "Long story." He said with a sudden gloomy look. "Not one of the happiest either."

"Is it also about Jess?"

"Everything doesn't revolve around her."

Madison looked at him both sarcastic and sad, head lazily resting on the back of the couch. "With you, it seems so."

Sam shook his head, sobered by Madison's questions. "No, it's not about her. Well, not directly. But she was one of the few people who knew."

"Who knew what?"

He looked at Madison, really looked at her, as if he didn't know her. He saw like for the first time her cheekbones made pink because of the alcohol and the heat of the room. Lean shoulders hidden by a shirt with long sleeves, hair tied low on her neck, jeans that seemed to have been worn for one week (it was also probably the case, Madison loved her practical, comfortable clothes and nothing was more comfortable than too worn jeans). She had developed her muscles from carrying crates of equipment, and the shadows under her eyes were dug, her eyes seemed blacker. He didn't know why the review seemed so important at that moment, but he was surprised to find that she wasn't shying away from it, she didn't move aside from the regular lifting of her chest when she breathed. She waited for him to consider her trustworthy, as if she was facing a wounded animal, and she dared not move for fear of frightening him.

"That I killed someone."

He had expected the jolt, her skin growing pale, her straightening all of a sudden and moving aside from him. Jessica had had the same reaction. And curiously, he had to know her enough to have also expected her second reaction, because he wasn't surprised when she leaned over the coffee table to catch her half-empty beer and asked simply "What happened?"

He straightened too, it wasn't a discussion that he could have if he didn't hold himself upright a little. He had a lump in his throat, he knew that before the end he would have trouble talking. And yet he wanted to tell her as he had felt like, no, needed to tell her about Apple and Jessica. When he began his story, they both knew that something had changed between them. Madison was entering the excessively closed circle of people Sam entrusted. He didn't realize that she had turned the TV off, but he realized that she had slipped her hand in his.

He closed his eyes and began to tell.


	10. Chapter 10 : Unsaid Things

**Warnings: Swearing, language, bullying, mentions of bullying, physical violence, mention of minor character death, mention of inherent suicide**

* * *

**Chapter 10:** Unsaid things

**1994**

A new year, a new school.

Most of kids Sam's age would probably have liked the possibility to reinvent themselves in a place where no one would know them. A new opportunity to become the star of the school, with teachers who wouldn't have labeled them for years, comrades who wouldn't have seen them grow. Sam, however, hated to change of schools at the mercy of his father's assignments. He wasn't very good to make friends and never stayed in one place long enough to have real ones. There was no reason for anything to... He looked up at the pediment of the main building to remember the name of his new middle school. Truman High.

Fantastic, he would spend the next few months of his life to explain to people that if the high school football team was called the "Bombers" it was because President Truman had bombed Japan half a century ago. Dean would find it very funny and the rest of the world would find it stupid.

He sighed and crossed the threshold, looking down, the protective hand of his brother on his shoulder. He pushed it away of a sharp movement and pulled his schedule from the pocket of his jeans. The clothing had belonged to someone before belonging to Dean and then passed down to him. He didn't pay much attention to it, but he had already attended enough schools to know that the popular kids would throw a look at his outfit where only the shoes were new and would turn away from him as if he didn't exist. That didn't bother him, it was on a first selection between the people he would talk to in the coming months and the others. Either way he wouldn't remember these people. He wouldn't remember the kid who was a head taller than he and who hit him voluntarily in the hallway as he hurried to his first literature class.

"You could apologize!" The other shouted in his back. Sam turned and weighed him up. He was very good to this exercise and it put people quite uncomfortable to be sized up by a skinny kid whose stray locks fell before his eyes. The other was tall and seemed beefy but Sam had a soldier as a father, he was well placed to know that those who appear beefy aren't the most impressive. He judged the kid unworthy of interest and turned away, shrugging, ignoring the insult that echoed in his back. He was used to be the new one tested and knew a pseudo-tough guy when he saw. They didn't scare him.

However, they scared Barry. Throughout this first day, Barry was the only kid who spoke to him for anything other than asking him to move out of the way. He was even smaller and less impressive than Sam which was a feat in itself. And he was the official punching bag of Dirk McGregor who, Sam soon learned, was the pseudo-tough guy from the corridor.

"Why don't you just say no?" He asked a few weeks later seeing Barry hastily finish Dirk's homework before classes start.

"You're crazy? He'd reduce me to a pulp!"

"Nah." Sam said. "That kind of guy you simply stand up to them once and they leave you alone."

"Maybe. After reducing me to a pulp." Barry said by putting the end point to the copy. "Doesn't look like my handwriting too much?" He asked, handing the paper to Sam. This one shook his head, sighing.

As everywhere, nobody was lashing out at Sam Winchester. Maybe because he had a cool and awesome big brother who made no secret that he would tear the eyes of anyone who would look bad at him. Maybe because he gave the impression of being able to take care himself about his assailant's eyes. Or maybe because no one worthy enough of interest to martyr him.

Barry, however, was one of those children who drag their pain with them, unable to hide them and he exposed himself to the world as a potential victim.

This lasted for a time and gradually Dirk grew bolder and lashed out at Sam. The kid was indifferent to his attacks, he was just trying to stay away from problems. Mainly because he didn't want to risk the remonstrances of his father and also to avoid yet another expulsion to Dean, who asked him daily why he didn't defend himself.

"Damn Sammy, you could beat the hell out of him with your hands tied in your back!"

"I know, but we don't solve anything with violence, let me handle it." The younger replied, his head on his homework. He knew that Dean was forcing himself to not intervene.

"Why didn't you fight back Sam?"

Once, Sam sighed. It was at the end of the first term. He had turned on his chair. "Because I want to be normal for once. Don't be the new one who has a knife in his pocket and knows how to use it, don't be the one designated as "Sam Winchester, you know, the guy whose father is a killer!" "

"Dad is not a killer!"

"He's a marines. Normal kids think he's a killer, and they think I'm a monster." The kid protested.

"You aren't a monster Sam!"

"Then let me prove it this time."

Dean had nodded and had not raised the issue anymore. But despite his efforts, Sam wasn't the kind of kid who managed to integrate. Maybe something in the line of his jaw or in his eyes that Dirk was not observant enough to identify. May be his way of always stand straight. He didn't integrated. And Barry didn't defend himself against Dirk until the day when things went too far.

Dirk wanted to fight and Sam knew he wouldn't do it in the school premises, he had already tried and teachers had intervened. He waited until the end of classes, in the crush of students hurrying to the bus he lashed out at Barry. When Sam arrived, his friend was on the ground, bloody nose, feeling around the dirty asphalt of the parking lot looking for his glasses which had been projected a few steps away.

The whole crowd's indifference was probably what got Sam furious the most. They were a good dozen to observe the unequal fight, laughing at Barry. He didn't find even one to take his friend's defense. And he was also furious against Barry who was curlling up in a ball on the ground, moaning. Why could he not defend himself for once? Only once and everything would be over!

Dirk gave him a challenging look that Sam ignored despite the anger that made him clench his fists and bite his lips. He helped his friend to his feet and handed him his glasses.

"Get to the bus." He said. Barry gave him a somewhat worried look. He knew Sam now. He was the only one to had taken interest in him beyond the weapon he was hiding in his bag and his cool brother. He was the only of the school to have glimpsed John through the windows of the Impala ("Your father is scary." "That's because of his work."). He was the only one to consider Sam as a human being and that's probably why he knew immediately that things were going to turn badly. His look said to his friend to be careful but Sam didn't look at him. He went away to the bus and saw Sam hesitate half a second, looking Dirk up and down before turning away from him to go away. Dirk shoved him.

It was a classic way to start a fight that he had already used on Sam, but had failed to make him fly off the handle. But this time, by mistake or by calculation, Dirk had exactly the right words to get him a fit of rage. Sam had scratched his hands on the bitumen and was focusing on the minor burn to not listen to the insults and jeers that were showering down on him.

"What's the matter lose-chester? You scared?"

Just the burn, breathe, do not let himself lose his temper. He clenched his fists.

"Let's see what you got, freak!"

Breathe. Violence wouldn't solve anything. But he could already see himself hitting him, knew where he would aim first, taking advantage of his small size and his apparent superiority in combat.

"Come on, monster, come on!"

The word struck Sam stronger than a blow, he almost felt the lash of the whip to have failed, to be once again the school freak. Anger overwhelmed him like a wave and before having thought about it he was on his feet and had pushed Dirk too. The other looked at him, surprised to see him defend himself. He tried to hit him in the face but Sam dodged, leaned forward and struck him right in the stomach. He hadn't even put all his strength in the blow but Dirk bent over and took a few steps backward. Sam had to admit that the kid was tenacious and stupid because he didn't give up the fight. He tried to hit him again and earned Sam's knee into the chest for any reward. Then his fists on his face, again and again. Sam wasn't fighting anymore to save or avenge Barry, nor even to prevent future attacks from Dirk. He was doing it only by pleasure, for the simple satisfaction of seeing that brat Dirk bite the dust. A kick behind the knees to make him fall and again a blow under the chin to knock him down and put him KO.

He leaned over him, satisfied and looked him in the eyes.

"You're not tough, Dirk. You're just a jerk. Dirk the jerk."

He didn't even know why he felt the need to belittle the other boy like that. It felt just good after months of biting his tongue to never reply anything. He walked away, leaving behind him Dirk still lying on the ground in the middle of the circle of his former admirers who were now laughing and chaunting in unison "Dirk the jerk, Dirk the jerk".

Madison smiled. "He got what he deserved." She said. "Apparently it was high time that someone put him in his place."

Sam shook his head. He had sat with his elbows on knees, feet flat on the floor, hands clasped between his legs spread apart and was looking at the carpet through the curtain of his long hair.

"They all continued to call him Dirk the jerk all the rest of the year. I discovered long after that he lived a hell at home. Her mother had died of cancer the year before, it was probably why no teacher reprimanded hm for his behavior."

"That's not an excuse. Lots of people suffer losses and don't become bastards for all that."

"He died the year of his twelfth grade."

Madison raised her eyebrows. "Of what?"

"Of me I guess. Once I had broken his image... things have never been the same for Dirk anymore. He had become the school's whipping boy he couldn't bear it. He began to drink, take drugs, and eventually got run over by a bus one night." He clenched his hands hard against each other to stop them of shaking. "I became exactly what I thought I was fighting against. People were cheering me in the corridors the next week, and no one lashed out at Barry that year. They all turned against Dirk. But the following year, my father was assigned in another state and I moved to another school. Another tough guy took the place of Dirk in Barry's life, and others I guess. Two years after I received a death announcement sent by his mother."

He had a lump in his throat, he could still see the little black cardboard and the white typing on it.

"Because whatever you do Mads, whatever the number of assholes that you take out there will always be some to take their place. And I didn't know that. I'd thought... I was just a kid and I thought I was doing what was right. I just became exactly what I hated. I wanted to do justice and I became the torturer. I caused the death of a child to save another who's dead anyway."

Madison said nothing and he felt compelled to fill the silence.

"Well, that's it." He said, parting his hands. "You know about all of me now."

The silence was heavy, it seemed to weigh on Sam a little more each minute. "Say something!" He begged, raising his eyes to her. She just shook her head. She had sat cross-legged and hadn't unclenched her hands from around her beer for a good half hour. "Say something."

"What do you want me to tell Sam?"

"Anything."

She put her bottle on the floor thoughtfully and looked at him for a moment before making a decision. She rose as swiftly as her slight inebriation allowed her and put a hand on his shoulder. "I need more alcohol." She stated, squeezing slightly.

"That's all you can say?" He was feeling... confused, almost betrayed. He had just confided her the most important thing in his life and she wanted more alcohol. He wondered what was wrong with that girl. What was wrong with him.

"Tomorrow I'll say something. Tonight, you and I are only good at getting drunk." She said, stretching to the phone to order more bottles to the room service.

"You often get drunk when people confide to you?" He asked with a dark tone. She was perched on the back of the couch near his shoulder and he had to raise his head to look at her. She hung up the phone, biting her lips.

"Tomorrow." She said. "Let me time to digest, I'll have the appropriate response tomorrow."

"And what's the appropriate response?" He gnashed. He wanted to leave, to act as if none of this had happened, as if she wasn't leaning towards him with an expression he couldn't name.

"Tomorrow." She said. She paid the bottles when they came to bring them and this time they used the glasses. The tequila lacked lemon and salt, the vodka, ice, but at the end of the bottles, Madison was drunk enough to not think about what she had just heard. Too drunk probably because everything seemed to float miles away from her. She didn't even have the feeling to actually touch anything and she was moving as if in cotton. Fuelled by alcohol, Sam had relaxed. Maybe was she in condition to tell him something, or to have now the appropriate response she was defering to the day after. She was certain that the words coming out of her mouth were not exactly those she was thinking so she decided not to say anything.

"Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow." She promised.

She was vaguely aware that he was leaving and woke up with a stiff neck and a sticky mouth.

##

Dorothy deeply admired the complicity of the members of Free Will among them and the way they had to invite just about anyone in their little world.

Kevin, Charlie and she had moved to a box in a coffee shop, surrounded by bags of their impromptu shopping. The bassist and cellist had sat cross-legged next to one another while both looked over the same board, arguing about whether it was really a federal crime to put cream in coffee. Dorothy smiled and gave her own board to the waiter saying to herself that it was rare for them, accustomed to fast food, to have a waiter. She let her mind wander, heard here and there a few words of conversation, watching people until the two others have finally chosen and tha their drinks were brought to them.

"When will you see her?" Charlie asked to Kevin, soaking her lips into her cup.

"Next week, we'll be in Illinois, I invited her to the concert."

Charlie smiled, raising her cup. "You finally understood what's the point of being rockstar, I'm proud of you!"

Kevin smiled, methodically reducing a muffin into little crumbs on his napkin. "It's not like that." He said softly. The coffee shop noises created an almost warm atmosphere around them while gray clouds were darkening the sky they saw out the window. "It's just that..."

"That?" Dorothy asked, leaning over the table. The old leather of her jacket slowly creaked while Kevin looked down at the cup he clutched in his hands.

"We all thought that Castiel was going to die. It doesn't make you realize that life is very short in fact?"

Charlie chuckled. "You had a sudden revelation?"

"Cause you hadn't?" The young man defended himself. "You two have become much more... obvious since this incident."

The two women exchanged an embarrassed glance.

"Because we're discrete doesn't mean we're not attached." Charlie said mid-voice, taking a sip of her coffee. "Do you have any idea of how screwed we'd be if people knew for us? Or even worse, for Dean and Cas?"

Kevin shrugged. "You're paranoid. No one cares who you sleep with and I'm sure it could even advertize us."

Dorothy smiled at the young man's naivety. "Charlie may not interest a lot of people..."

"Hey!" The bassist cut her short, reaching out to hit her on the shoulder over the table. "But it only concerns us. Also you're wrong, nobody cares until people find a reason to take offense."

It wasn't something easy to explain and neither Charlie nor she actually had the words for it. It was just the pervasive sense that whatever they share, all would be ruined at the slightest intrusion into their private lives.

Charlie and Kevin had engaged in a lively debate about the way people judged the stars without knowing them and Dorothy lost the thread of the conversation while watching bassist. She was wearing glasses with heavy black plastic frames, her red hair in a ponytail from which escaped wisps and a plaid shirt, which for once didn't seem out of the closet of one of the Winchester. There was something very endearing in Charlie, in her way of talking by gesticulating, in the way she had to wink to the barista at the other end of the room and in her laughter.

"Hey, you're participating?" Said the young woman, turning to her. Dorothy hid her confusion behind her drink, blinking.

"Weren't we talking about Kevin's great revelation before you digressed?"

Charlie turned her attention to the young man who had started to grope one of his gauges.

"So, tell us."

"There's nothing to tell. She was glad to hear from me and I invited her to the concert, that's all."

"And what are you gonna do?"

"I don't know!" He sighed in exasperation. "You'd find it easy to see someone you've known forever and come looking guileless, arms open like: "Hey look it's the new me!" "

Charlie shrugged. "Yes." She simply said. "I almost went back to work after the first tour you know. Show them that they had been wrong to fire me."

Dorothy chuckled. "It's sure that the loss of your skills would have been the first thing they'd have thought seeing you."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Charlie replied without laughing, finishing her drink. Kevin beholded her with a smile. Besides her shirt she was wearing jeans torn at the knees which must have go out of fashion at the death of Kurt Cobain and her red boots that she refused to remove now anyway. Her black polish was peeling and she was wearing enough leather bracelets to cover half of her two forearms. Her bangs falling into her eyes hiding her makeup that had suffered from the heat of the afternoon. They were all fully aware of what their appearances inspired to the others. Even in this cafe with a rather young clientele, Kevin saw out of the corner of his eye the fold of the mouth of some customers who expressed a broad category of emotions, from disgust to disappointment. On tour nobody watched them like that, they melted into the mass of spectators and piercied, tattooed and weirdly dressed roadies. But once the doors of the halls or tourbus passed, reality hit them again.

The absence of tattoos and piercings of Dorothy helped her to go unnoticed, option that neither Charlie nor Kevin had. They had chosen it and Kevin knew he could always remove his piercings. But he didn't want to, the metal implants had become a part of him that went with the keyboard, the concerts and the new life that the Winchester had offered him one day after hearing him play in the street.

He just wondered what Channing would think about it. Probably nothing good, and the mere idea that his friend could look at him like had just did the middle-aged lady leaning on the counter was clutching his stomach.

##

"Dotty? What will happen next?"

"Next what?"

They were both lying on the bed in their hotel room trying to find a program to watch on TV. Charlie thought that tomorrow she would probably have more energy but for now she was only able to close her eyes for the night. Dorothy's warm body against hers was comfortable and truth be told she didn't really care about the answer to her question.

She had half asked to fill the semi silence of the room.

"After the tour." She said lazily, putting an arm around her lover to draw her against herself.

"Each will resume her life." Dorothy answered by turning the TV off. Charlie sighed contentedly before the meaning of the words strikes her completely. She looked up, frowning.

"What do you mean?"

Dorothy shrugged. "I'll find another job, the demand for drivers isn't lacking, and you'll resume your normal life."

"Without you." Charlie said, sitting in bed.

"Of course without me." Dorothy seemed puzzled. "Charlie what's wrong?" he asked, putting her hand on the shoulder of the bassist. The woman resisted the urge to push her back with a sharp movement.

"It's just that I thought that... After one year..." She had a lump in the throat and at the same time wanted to scream very loud that it wasn't fair. That Dorothy had no right to be as serene and detached by announcing that it seemed perfectly normal to her that they leave each other at the end of the tour. As if they had been one for the other only a convenience on the road.

"We had come to an agreement from the beginning Charlie!"

Charlie nodded. Of course they had reached an agreement. A year ago. When Charlie wasn't attached yet, when she honestly thought she'd be able to not become attached, and when Dean had made fun of her about it.

_"You're about as able to not getting attached than Sam is to let go of something!"_

_"That's not true!"_

He was right apparently, because she souldn't have felt as miserable. It didn't mean anything. They had never promised anything to each other but now Charlie deeply regretted having left their agreement grow between them to become a kind of impenetrable wall. She let Dorothy draw her against herself and lay her back between the pillows before kissing her. Charlie felt like crying, clinging to the neck of the blouse of her partner. She was starting to count down their kisses, as well as their caresses.

One more kiss, one less on the list of those that remained to them.

A caress and another one.

Dorothy had regretted her words to the second she had seen the pained expression on Charlie's face. It had done her something strange in the region of the heart to see her like that, like a sort of instinct screaming her that something was wrong and she had to rectify it immediately. She silenced her inner voice by hugging Charlie against her. She would respect the agreement they had signed months earlier because it was the kind of respect that one shows to the people they cherish. And she would do it without complaining even though she saw scrolling the miles getting them closer to California without pleasure. She wouldn't like the sun, since she wouldn't see it set Charlie's hair ablaze anymore. And the road would be dull without her on the passenger seat. But she had lived worse, would probably live worse than indulge in having feelings for someone who would eventually resume her life without her.

That was what she had signed for the first time she had kissed the girl and she was fully aware of it. So it didn't matter that she had a heavy heart at the thought that soon she would no longer hear the sighs of bassist, nor the sound of her voice in the morning.

It didn't matter that she wouldn't be able to spend whole nights, her horny hand in hers or the approaching end of their conversations in the front of the tourbus. She knew what she had signed for.

##

Even after all these years, waking up with Castiel remained one of the best moments of the day. Dean slowly opened his eyes, expecting the daylight but sometimes he could see nothing but the sheets covering the chest of his companion. No matter in what position he fell asleep, or if Castiel wasn't yet in bed at this moment, Dean woke up systematically one arm around the accountant. That morning he was sweating under the blankets but made no move to push them knowing that this would wake the young man up. He just listened to his breathing and the beating of his heart mixing with the street noise that was slowly waking. Sometimes when he was exhausted or half asleep, he found himself as this morning to marvel at the slightest detail. The skin texture of his lover, the folds sheets of which he could hardly hear the crumpling when he was moving. And he began to write in his head, crossing out each sentence bit by bit, a song of which he only had the title. _Miracle_.

Castiel awoke while he was mentally stumbling on a chorus trying to fall back asleep.

"Hey." The young man croaked.

"Hey. Sleep well?"

"Not enough."

"Go back to sleep."

"No."

Dean laughed, he mentally ran a journal of the speed at which Castiel managed to place "no" in conversation. He regularly broke his record. Sometimes it was even his first word of the day.

"You're thinking so loud that I heard you in my dream." Castiel said, pulling himself out of his embrace to roll on his side and look at him. Dean smiled.

"And what was I saying in your dream?"

Castiel turned in a creasing of sheets to take his face in both hands, eyelids half closed on his eyes still clouded with sleep.

"More, more..." He whispered right up against his lips while their legs tangled under the blanket. Dean laughed clutching him against himself.

Even after years, it was his favorite moment of the day.


	11. Chapter 11 : Head On

**Warnings: **slight drunkness, mention and reference to past abuse

* * *

**Chapter 11:** Head On

Drink to give herself courage wasn't a solution, or shouldn't have been, Madison knew it. Yet she had stayed all day locked in her room, pretending not to be and distressing at the idea that Sam could knock on the door. She had so much passed her hand through her hair that they had greased. She had drunk. And Sam's words were playing in a loop in her head._ "I killed someone."_

That sounded wrong, should have sounded even more wrong than this. Yet she felt constantly reliving the second of terrified incredulity of the previous day. Something like her heart collapsing suddenly in her belly by freezing her entrails passage. A great white flash that replaced all other reality than this one: He had killed someone. And nothing prevented him to do it again.

She shook her head for about the thousandth time that day to chase the sensation. That wasn't true. It was fear speaking and not the rational and intelligent part of her. It was fear that had made her drink the night before and defer her reply, fear again that had frozen the words on her tongue and had tied her throat. Deep inside her, a terrified voice asked her the same question constantly : "_And if he's like Kurt, what will you do?_"

She wondered since morning and had found only one answer: _"We'll see." _And this conversation with herself had already lasted too long. Sam hadn't thrown anyone off a cliff, hadn't pointed a revolver on anyone and only his guilt had made him use those precise words that continued to terrify her almost twenty-four hours later. _"I killed someone." _It was wrong and it was the only thing she was entitled to respond. The rest concerned only Sam and only depended on him. As far as she was concerned, he hadn't done anything else than his best and he wasn't guilty of the way things had turned.

She took a pack of beer in the fridge. Drinking shouldn't have been the solution, but sober, she saw Kurt's face, heard again the noise of the key turning in the lock and the feel of her stomach that ached every time she imagined him following her in the street. If she concentrated enough she could almost remember the pain of the blows that day and she had to open her eyes because there was the name of another tattooed in white on the knuckles which aimed her.

"_And if he's like Kurt, what will you do?_"

She went out into the corridor by mentally silencing the insidious voice. _"We'll see."_ It was probably the alcohol talking but the beer had more courage and less qualms than her. She had her eyes half closed when he opened the door because she was afraid of not being able to utter a sound if she looked at him. She was clutching the cans against her, concentrated only on the cold and the words she uttered.

"You didn't kill anyone. You were just a child, you did what you could and... And I don't care that you feel guilty, I don't care that you're afraid because I'm afraid too. But you haven't done anything to me and…" Her voice deadened. Where was her eloquence? Her education? Where were the beautiful phrases she had prepared? Where was the intelligence and the culture he admired in her and she admired in him? She looked down at the ugly carpet and the metal door step. "We are the sum of our experiences. And until yesterday, I thought that your experiences had made you someone good. There's no reason that what you told me changes anything. It's still you and it doesn't change anything."

"It does." He said quietly. "It changes things. It changes the way you'll look at me."

Elle shook her head. "Like tattoos, like piercings. It changes the way people look at you, but it doesn't define who you are. It doesn't change who you are."

"And who do you think I am?" He asked, smiling slightly. She shrugged, became aware of the cold beers that froze her stomach and held them out.

"Like everyone. Someone who does his best."

He took the cans and his smile widened. "You practiced your speech, didn't you?"

She nodded. "Absolutely."

"Good work, the jury is satisfied." He stepped aside to let her in and when she crossed the threshold she felt like a vise loosening around her, as if she was breathing for the first time of the day.

"Sorry I... freaked out yesterday."

"The opposite would have been... freaking." He gestured to the couch where she sat down with the strange sensation of floating in a bubble as she was relieved that the ordeal had passed. The voices had fallen silent inside her and she felt strangely in her place.

"It's because of this story the tattoo?" She asked, pointing to her own chest with a wave of her free hand. He nodded and looked down at the neckline of his shirt where a few letters were visible.

"Always be wary of the kind ones. Even more of those who think they are." He handed her a beer and put the others on the floor, sitting in turn.

"And the sunflowers?"

"Dean and I. Sunflowers are always looking toward the sun. I made them after Jess's death... it was a bad time, you know, really awful."

"I imagine."

"When things started to get better, we vowed to remember that things always get better. De To always look toward the sun."

She nodded thoughtfully. It was symbolic that she could also identify with. Things got better if only taken head on.

"Do you manage to?" She asked.

"Most of the time."

He smiled, and when she reached for the remote they knew that the subject was closed. They both happened to feel strangely relieved about it.

##

Charlie couldn't remember the last time she had been awakened before sunrise. She had slept a restless sleep that hadn't bothered Dorothy and had gotten up long before her partner, gently closing the door behind her and going back up the corridor on tiptoe, her boots in her hands as if she might be getting caught going over the wall.

She loved hotels, their impersonal smell and their lighting designed to not harden the occupants's features. She loved the musty and sometimes dusty smell of the carpeted and poorly ventilated corridors. She hesitated to settle in the lobby while waiting for breakfast time, but finally decided to go out. The street was covered with a cloak of icy mist that made her tighten her jacket around her, shivering. Her phone told her that it was just before six o'clock, namely an absolutely indecent hour on the west coast. She hesitated for a second before calling Dean. He answered on the third ring.

"I hope for you that's important." He grumbled in greeting.

"Am I interrupting something?" She asked, feigning amusement. She didn't really know where her steps were leading her and wasn't paying attention, her eyes in the gray wave that tinged the streets.

"My daily four hours of sleep." Dean grouched. She heard a rustling and a groan that certainly came from Castiel. "What's goin' on?"

She felt tears arrive suddenly and put a hand to her lips as if to prevent them from coming out. She already had a blocked nose and eyes burning with tears.

"I'm not ok Dean, not ok at all."

There was a little silence at the end of the line and then: "Cas... Coffee."

She stifled a giggle and a snort, but curiously she didn't hear a protest, just the sound of the phone that went from one hand to an other and Castiel's hoarse voice.

"Charlie? Find a place to settle yourself if you haven't already and call us back in ten minutes."

He hung up before she could say anything. She had stopped near a busy avenue in which the fog prevented her to discern the name on the plates. She asked to one of the few passersby if there was a cafe open at that hour, and he indicated her a tea house two blocks away. The establishment was barely open and behind a refrigerated counter full of colorful cupcakes, a young man in apron forced himself to smile at her. She was not hungry but still bought a pastry with blue topping and a tea.

She hardly drank tea before meeting Castiel. The young man had initiated her by claiming that there was much more flavors in this hot water than in coffee. Sam had spent months telling them that the hot water was made for baths until their lack of responsiveness discourages him. She sat in a box, wedged between the seat and the wall, pulled her knees against her chest, her shins against the table with a questioning look to the cupcake seller who shrugged as if uninterested if her boots stain the seat fabric.

She let her tea brew before taking a cup and pressing the recall button on her phone. She sat back in the corner, her cup in her hands clasped between her knees, her phone jammed between her shoulder and ear.

"Hey princess."

"Hey. You have your coffee?"

"Yep, you're settled?"

"Yes."

She heard a movement while Dean placed her on speaker and she closed her eyes, imagining her friends, barely dressed, hair disheveled, each with a cup of coffee in hand and phone between them on the blanket.

"Tell us." Castiel said.

"She's going to leave me."

The urge to cry had returned and the hot tea in her hands did nothing to calm her. She clenched her fingers stronger around the cup and swallowed a sniff. She didn't care to look ridiculous or for the seller to hear her conversation. She felt terribly alone and she needed comfort. Like that day, years ago when the gray sky had tinged with pink under Dean's umbrella. She related the discussion of the previous day almost without crying. It was a feat.

Neither of the two men interrupted her during the time that lasted her account. She could almost imagine them exchanging facial expressions over the phone.

"Talk to her." Dean said. "How do you want her to guess if you've never renegotiated the terms of the contract?"

"She doesn't want to renegociate. She finds it normal... She doesn't care."

There was a pause and then Castiel's voice. "Don't be a fool. You'd certainly like her to be telepathic but she isn't. What do you risk in telling her what you just told us? It's not like if she could leave you twice."

"Cas!" Dean grouched.

"What? You know I'm right!"

Charlie had a laugh that was half a sniff by listening to them argue. The tea was cold enough for her to drink. People were starting to get in the shop and the fog was slightly less dense.

"I wish we could be... like you two, her and me."

"Nah you wouldn't want that!" Dean retorted. She could almost hear him roll his eyes. "You have no idea how many times he tried to leave me."

Charlie frowned. "How many?"

"Nineteen." Castiel answered.

"Why?"

"For an unbelievable amount of good reasons that neither you nor Dorothy have. So if we were able to overcome that nineteen times, don't you think it's worth for you to fight, just once?"

Charlie nodded while being fully aware that they couldn't see her. She poured herself another cup of tea and Dean spoke again.

"What would Batwoman do in this situation?"

Charlie nearly choked on her drink and began to cough violently while at the other end of the country, Castiel was sneering. She wiped her mouth with her napkin the time to find an answer. She didn't really wanted to cry anymore, she rather wanted to bite into something that wasn't a cake. She smiled watching the mist dissolving through the window.

"She'd tell her everything. She'd give her no choice and would deal with the consequences after."

"Go get 'em, tiger."

Dean hung up soon after and emptied his cup in two long sips. Castiel was looking at him thoughtfully.

"What?"

Castiel shook his head. "You know, I had never asked myself, but I kept count of the number of times I tried to leave you. I wonder what that says about me?"

"That you're an idiot inflicted with an obsessive-counting disorder. And that I'm awesome." Dean replied, pulling him toward himself for a kiss that tasted like coffee. They lay down one over the other, Castiel's arms crossed over Dean's chest, their chins almost touching.

"You know, you saved my life, I love you and you are my hero, but I always wonder... what do you see in me? Why do you stay?"

Dean dramatically sighed but kept the sarcastic comment he had on the tip of the tongue. He took the time to think to formulate his reply, mechanically outlining the tattoo under Castiel's clavicle with his finger. _"Safe and sound"._

"You're the only one I can drift with." He eventually replied. "I want to be strong for Sam, be a model for Kevin, a support for Charlie... But you really think I'm a hero, and I don't feel the need to be anything else but me when I'm with you to conform myself to this image. It's relaxing."

Castiel was watching him intently and Dean ran a hand over his face, stopping on the lips as if it was the natural place of his fingers. "You're going to find that… you're gonna hate what I'll say, but you just had to not ask. You're my refuge, you're where I go when I need to rest, to be weak once from time to time. And it's more than anyone can give me. And besides, I love you."

Castiel would have wanted to laugh and sweep the declaration with a sarcastic comment, but he was tired and filled with emotion and couldn't find the courage to answer anything. Nor to move to kiss him. He remained just leaning over his lover, looking at him. Cheek still marked by the pillow, the lower lip slightly distorted by the ring of his labret, the green tiger's eye that highlighted the color of his eyes, and the freckles which overlayed his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He sincerely wondered what he had done to deserve this.

"You think it's going to be ok for her?" Dean asked and Castiel was glad of the interruption of his thoughts. His ability to frenzied romanticism had been exceeded at least ten minutes before. He nodded.

"She knows she can count on you if necessary. And I sincerely believe that talking will do some good to both of them."

Dean nodded and the movement ended up in kissing, Castiel's tongue against his and the sighs that escaped him right away sufficed to distract him for a long time.

##

Madison woke up with a stiff neck and pasty mouth, curled up on the couch in Sam and Kevin's room under a blanket that had slipped from her shoulders in the night. She didn't remember falling asleep but the empty beer bottles on the coffee table and on the floor clearly indicated to her how this could have happen. The two men were sleeping each in their own bed when she climbed out of her bedding and silently took three steps into the room, the rolled blanket in her arms to get her sneakers abandoned in a corner.

She put the blanket over Sam who was sleeping with one arm under his head, his face buried in the pillow. The pressure slightly woke him and he blinked, looking confused until he discerns her in the half-light of the room.

"Hey." He said in an unsteady voice. She leaned toward him, moving his fringe aside from his forehead and put a light kiss on it before slipping out while he fell asleep again, wondering if he'd just dreamed.

It was a little early for breakfast and Madison moved into the entrance hall with a book found on a depleted shelves that the hotel made available to its customers. She tried to distract herself by focusing on the story but had to periodically reread the page she had just turned because her mind kept coming back to Sam. Some people like Dorothy had a natural gift for observation and understanding of people which she herself lacked. The last three days had brought her more information about Sam that she felt able to assimilate, as though she had signed up for a course and found out too late that she didn't have the level required to succeed the final exam. She kept rethinking about the photo he had shown her, and his slightly broken voice telling his story was turning in her head as a programmed loop recording.

Broken, it was probably the best definition she could give of Sam. And yet, the only Image she had of him was this kid smiling and lanky playing with a dog in the dust on a past photo. And perhaps also the shadow of his eyelashes on his cheek that morning when she had covered him as he had done to her earlier in the night.

She felt the presence of Dorothy and looked up at the young woman, smiling to greet her.

"You're up early."

"Slept badly." Madison replied.

"Sam?"

She nodded. "How do you know?" She asked, putting down the book on the shelf. Dorothy shrugged.

"These days it's always about Sam, with you."

Madison felt vaguely embarrassed to be so predictable. "Sorry." She said. "I must be... particularly unbearable, by dint."

"Not really unbearable, just a bit discouraging."

Madison stifled a giggle. "Am I so easy to read?"

Dorothy nodded and made a movement towards the restaurant area that had just opened. "You want to discuss it at the breakfast table? Hungry, I'm useless and Charlie won't answer her phone."

Madison nodded for breakfast but she didn't want to talk about Sam and she broached any other possible topics: the next dates of the tour, what they would do when returning to California, and curiously, the concert to which Kevin had invited Channing. Dorothy had one of her ambiguous smiles, and Madison noticed that unlike her, the young woman never put her elbows on the table.

"You think they'll do something special for this occasion?"

The driver nodded. "It could hardly be otherwise."

They had almost finished their meal in the atmosphere increasingly noisy in the room that was beginning to be overly crowded when Charlie arrived, fists clenched in the pockets of her jacket and nose reddened by the outdoor freshness.

"Hey." She said to the roadie. "Sorry to interrupt, do you mind if I borrow her?" She asked, pointing to Dorothy with her thumb.

Madison smiled, shooking her head. "Take good care of her, I'm definitely going to need her advice in the coming days!" She said by standing up, taking her empty cup with her. Charlie took her seat and took off her jacket under Dorothy's questioning look.

"What did she need advice for?"

"Sam." Dorothy answered, pouring herself another tea. She raised an eyebrow to ask the bassist if she wanted some and Charlie declined with a shake of her head.

"What did you tell her?"

"To be cautious, but it dates back several days." Dorothy answered. It was exactly the angle of attack that Charlie would have wanted to avoid but she didn't want to further delay the confrontation.

"That's what you always do, don't you? Be cautious?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You want to leave me arriving in LA. Why not now?"

She felt a flood of words coming to her lips and the urge to cry that came quickly back under the detached gaze Dorothy had. She should have accept her offer of tea, she'd have had something to occupy her hands rather than nervously fiddling with the tablecloth.

"I didn't say that." The other replied. "I said that it was what was agreed at the outset."

Charlie stopped trying to tear the tablecloth with her nails and gave her a puzzled look. "But yesterday..."

"Isn't th at what you want? Charlie, we're going back to California and then what? What do you see of me as a part of your life? You're going to lock you up with the boys in a recording studio for months, then you'll be in promotional marathon and I'll leave again on the road with other people. Where do you see the possibility for us to still be together in these conditions? That's why we had started this story knowing full well that it would end at the end of the tour."

"I don't want it to end." Charlie said, forcing the words to override the lump she had in the throat. She didn't know if it was sadness, anger or relief, perhaps an odious mixture of the three.

"Me neither." Dorothy replied. "But it can't work and you know it. And the more we'll try to force things, more painful it will be when we realize that we have failed."

She no longer had anything to drink and now the greatest difficulty in watching Charlie in the face. The following words hurt her probably more than they should have.

"I understand why Madison asked you advice about Sam. You're just like him, finally."

Dorothy frowned and crossed her arms in annoyance.

"Can you elaborate?"

Charlie had sat up, eyes shining with tears or rage, Dorothy couldn't determine.

"You never get attached, never. Neither to me nor to anything else! I saw you lose the keys to the bus without blinking, I was there the day you got your bag stolen and you didn't say anything. You don't care... Sam I understand why he does that but you? What do you fear? That people leave you, so you don't become attached to anything?"

"That is _your_ fear Charlie!" Dorothy retorted. The other frowned, puzzled. "You're the one who's so afraid of being abandoned that you persist to get attached to anything and everything. You want to talk about who's most like Sam? Me, who don't become attached or you, who are unable to understand when to let go?"

Charlie had clenched her fists on her knees and looked down under Dorothy's icy tone.

"You're wrong." She said weakly. "It could work. It works for Dean and Castiel."

"We aren't Dean and Castiel."

Charlie looked down, defeated, and got up quickly to hide her tears, leaving Dorothy alone with her tea.

##

Kevin had made his best to not make noise but when he came out of the bathroom Sam was rubbing his eyes, sitting in bed. They greeted each other with a nod and Kevin saw Sam glancing around for Madison.

"She left before I wake up." The young man said, sitting on his rumpled bed to extirpate his sneakers from under the pile of blankets fallen to the ground. "You made her sleep on the couch? Very sweet, bud." He teased.

"She fell asleep in the middle of the film, I didn't want to wake her." Replied Sam who was beginning to wonder if he really had any reason to get out of bed for the time being.

"I don't get it." Kevin said, pulling on his second shoe. "When I met you, you used to jump on everything that moved, what has changed?"

Sam ran a hand over his face, it was much too early to have a real discussion. "Madison is a great girl, and she won't let me behave with her like with the others. And I'm pretty sure that jumping on a girl who just got out of an abusive relationship is somewhere between total stupidity and outright aggression." He was marveling at himself to be able to align such long words and also to be able to formulate a coherent thought as he wasn't yet fully awake.

Kevin smirked. "You mean she forces you to act like a decent guy?"

"Yup. Didn't happen to me since..." He paused, shaking his head before straightening in his bed as if to forget his sentence still outstanding.

"Since Jess." Kevin completed. Sam nodded. "You're lucky to have met twice a person who makes you want to give the best of yourself."

Sam nodded thoughtfully. Kevin searched his pockets for his magnetic key and walked toward the door, but the drummer caught him by the sleeve.

"Channing is comming to the concert next week... in Michigan?"

Kevin nodded. "What made you call her, finally?"

The young man took a moment to answer. He finally smiled and pulled away from Sam's grip with a jerk of his sleeve.

"At one point, whether you like it or not, escape isn't enough. So may as well take the problems head on."

Sam frowned. "I guess you're right... Whatever that means."

Kevin left him on a laugh and the drummer decided he ultimately didn't need to get up in the coming hour and lay down again.


	12. Chapter 12 : Family

**Chapter 12: Family**

"I'm not sure it's a good idea Channing." Mrs. Tran said, tightening her jacket around her, looking up at the billboard overlooking the entrance of the hall where the symbol of Free Will spread out in white on black above the tour name (The _Hellhound Tour _inspired her absolutely nothing positive).

She was ready to lay blame of her defection on the travel fatigue even if she didn't feel any, except maybe her tense shoulders and neck creaking when she made a sudden movement.

"Of course it is." The girl next to her protested. "He'll be delighted to see you."

Linda envied Channing'sconfidence, herself wasn't so sure about it. She even doubted that Kevin wasn't currently actively regretting having invited his friend to his concert. Muffled vibrations reached them from inside the hall and she wondered at what volume they were playing in there for her to hear them so far? The places should have been deserted but in front of the doors and their surroundings, she couldn't help looking at the knots of young people sitting on the floor chattering, laughing, eating and for some even sleeping, wrapped in sweaters who almost all sported Free Will's symbol or words, their faces hidden by large hoods from which she could only see a nose, a fringe, and too often piercings and some closed eyelids with an outrageous makeup.

"The concert only begins in five hours, what are they doing there?" She muttered for herself as much as for Channing.

"They are waiting to have good places." The girl replied distractedly, she had her phone to her ear and motioned to Mrs. Tran to follow her to the back of the hall. It wasn't a good idea, not at all, she was convinced of that. To surprise Kevin wasn't a good idea.

The obsessive thought accompanied her to the tourbus parked in a half circle on the back of the hall forming together like a patio where a few people were sharing cigarettes (or whatever it was, Linda Tran didn't want to know).

Kevin went out by the back door of the hall with the gait he had as a child when he refrained from running because he had just been reprimanded. She could see his smile from where she was, and the almost imperceptible movement of hesitation when he saw her.

It was a bad idea.

The smile didn't fade and Kevin ran exactly as he did when he was a child and she would pick him up at school. He didn't threw himself to her arms, probably only because he was aware that he was no longer four feet and that he might knock her over.

"Mom!"

Channing was smiling and Linda could almost hear her thinking "I told you so!" as she hugged her son against her, surprised (slightly) to find thathe smelled nice. A light lemon scent. For a second they said nothing more as he held her against him, and she took a few seconds to savor the word mom that had just blurted out of him. She had loved that word at the second he had looked at her in the eyes, with the very solemn expression of babies and, his little fists clenched firmly, had pronounced the two syllables as if he had trained for days to make her this gift.

"What are you doing here?" He asked all smiles before wrapping an arm around Channing's shoulders to drag her toward him and kiss her on the cheek.

"Your friend thought it would be a good idea for me to come." She didn't add "_so I know how you earn your living_" it seemed irrelevant.

"She was right."

"I'm always right." Channing pontificated.

Kevin took each by the hand and got them to follow him in the hall jabbering, asking them if they had had a good trip, if they had found the hall easily, if they had eaten already, if...

Linda wasn't really listening to him, she was watching him. She knew for the piercings. The scars were difficult to hide even if he withdrew all the jewelry every time he came to see her. But she had never actually seen the spacers, the shiny metal ball on his chin, or the many rings in his ears. Part of her kept saying that it was Kevin's body, that he did whatever he wanted of it. But the major part of her being painfully wondered why he was inflicting this to himself? What incomprehensible aesthetic pushed that being who had once called her "mom" with all the love in the world to voluntarily harm himself so much?

In the corridors that Linda would have imagined darker and less occupied, Kevin greeted people who had at least twice his age with smiles and short words. He seemed at ease. More comfortable than she had seen him in a while. Perhaps this was due to the outfit. He pefectly blended into the background, in jeans and black sweater of a label that probably evoked something to Channing but nothing to Linda. She suddenly felt old and inappropriated despite her son's hand tightened around hers. He wore a leather strap on which she deciphered "show must go on" in silver letters somewhat faded by the use.

They entered the room itself, it was spacious, well lit and again, Linda was surprised by the smell. It smelled neither sweat nor stale contrary to what she had believed. Instead there was like a floral trace in the air that she didn't know if it was perfume or deodorant. Channing was bouncing up and down, obviously excited.

"Is that Sam?" She asked, pointing to a sort of giant who was pacing the stage, pointing several things to a helmeted technician who nodded, noting things on a spiral notebook. Kevin nodded.

"Let him finish and I introduce you, he hates being interrupted during soundcheck."

"The what?" Linda asked by automatic reflex.

"The soundcheck." Kevin explained, turning to her. "Once the amps are installed and connected to the sound system of the hall, we test all the instruments to know how the acoustics blares and how to retune them for something good."

She nodded as he deepened his explanation without realizing that his audience may not understand everything. He had always been passionate and she was accustomed, over time, to hear him talk about things that were unknown to her.

"We try the instruments separately and then together. The guys of the hall will also take the opportunity to test the lights and synchronize the screens." He said by designating the huge black squares overhanging them. The giant jumped down from the stage after dismissing the technician and came towards them.

"You could have dressed!" Kevin grumbled loud enough for the other to hear him beyond the distance and the interjections of people around them.

"Had I known that we would be in such pleasant company, I would have taken some off!" The other retorted, advancing with the supple gait of those who have complete control of their bodies. He was wearing old sneakers that had been white some lives before, jeans torn at the knees and a gray tank top with armholes so large that it hung to his body only because of the roundness of his muscular shoulders. Linda Tran saw him approach without pleasure until she saw him closely. He had dimples, large white teeth and bright eyes, tired but full of joy. That wasn't enough to offset the amount of ink he had under the skin. She barely saw the hand he held out, too busy to scan the flowers on his arms, the letters visible by the neckline of his tank top... She couldn't honestly say that she thought it was ugly, but the idea of the pain it must have had engender made her shudder.

"Mrs. Tran I presume?" Before she could nod he passed his hand under hers and put it to his lips without taking his eyes off her. Kevin burst into laughter.

"Every time Sam, you do that every time!"

Sam smiled, dropping Linda's hand and elbowed his friend. "Gallantry is a habit of which you shouldn't make fun, kiddo!". Then he leaned toward Channing to lay a kiss on her cheek.

"I'm not elligible for gallantry?" She winced, trying not to have an automatic smile. He shook his head.

"It's restricted to the people who are most impressive than me." He answered with a smile.

Kevin knew well enough his mother and his friend to have noticed the exact moment when Sam had won them over. It was very funny because it was hard to imagine two more different worlds than Linda Tran's and Sam Winchester's. Yet they seemed to be curiously compatible, his mother's strict suit contrasting with Channing's sweater and the worn out jeans of Sam who detailed them each element of the sound effects after helping them to haul themselves on the stage. He felt a tap on his shoulder and a sound engineer of the hall gestured him to settle for his own balance. He was nervous.

Nervous as before his first recital, as before his first concert or the speech that he had had to deliver in front of the whole school at graduation. But this time the audience was smaller and much more important. He turned his back to the other three, feeling his mother's eyes on his back, and faced the synth keyboard.

"Whenever you want, kid." The sound engineer said impatiently.

Kevin was used to being called kid. From the top of his nineteen years of age, he was by far the youngest of the whole tour. Dean still had to order his beers in some states and Charlie almost forced him to wear a "minor" shirt wherever the age of sexual consent was beyond 19 years (which, curiously represented less states than those where he wasn't allowed to drink). Yet he felt adult. It was probably a feeling that people had the second they come out of the adolescent crisis, and no doubt that in ten years, looking back, he would find himself very childish and very stupid.

He cast out the parasitic ideas from his head and put his hand on the keyboard. He didn't actually play synthesizer, he knew the pieces he needed for concerts but it was much less complicated than the cello. He just had to press the right keys like on a computer. A pre-recorded music was raised to a much weaker volume than he would hear during the concert and behind him Sam and Channing fell silent. Kevin knew they were looking at him and he began to play, testing the chords, eyes following the setlist taped to a box before his eyes.

Music helped him to focus and he soon forgot everything that didn't concern the notes adjustment to the volume of the hall. He forgot Channing and his mother and his heart that was pounding a few minutes earlier. He forgot everything that was not the technical language, the lights and the reverberations that he demanded to keep intact.

"When the hall is full we won't hear them." He claimed. He seemed older, more imposing than his nineteen years. Linda put her hand on the shoulder of his son, smiling.

"You've always been good at it." She said softly in observing his hands that continued to play a tune on the keyboard. "Already as a baby you made noise with everything you had to hand. But it was pretty melodious."

Kevin smiled. "You say that because you're my mother."

"And because I love you." She assented. "But that doesn't exclude a certain objectivity."

##

"_You know, brother,_

_It's a lonely road when we're not together_

_You know, sister,_

_We can always rely on each other_"

"Hello Dean."

The singer looked up from his book, surprised to find Castiel on the doorstep of his green room, a bag on his shoulder and a small smile on his lips.

"I thought I had forbid you to come." He said rising, a finger slipped between the pages of his book.

"I don't like to receive orders, you know that." Castiel said sardonically, dropping his bag to move his arms around the neck of his lover.

"You were supposed to rest!"

"I slept in the airplain. And I'm fine." The young man muttered. "You're going to kiss me or what?"

Dean smiled and leaned toward him, wrapping his arms around the waist of his lover. Whatever he may say, Castiel's inability to stay away from him for a long time was one of the best things in the world. Those kind of surprises made him feel loved and that was pretty much all Dean asked to life. This and...

Castiel pulled away from him, looking surprised and the singer stifled a chuckle.

"Stick your tongue out?"

He complied, revealing the small surgical steel ball on his tongue, a novelty that made Castiel smile. The young man slipped his hands into his dark blond hair to draw him back to himself and whisper: "I also have a surprise."

Dean raised his eyebrows but Castiel shook his head, rubbing their noses against each other. "You'll see later."

A throat clearing made them turned their head towards the door where were framed Sam, Kevin and two women whom they immediately suspected were Channing and Mrs. Tran. They pulled apart and Linda noticed how Dean's hand lingered just a half second longer on Castiel's hip, briefly clutching his sweatshirt before breaking contact completely, as if to assure him of his presence when they would no longer touch. She also saw the tenderness that faded a little too slowly from Castiel's expression as he recomposed a neutral face and was advancing towards them to introduce himself.

Aesthetically, Linda preferred Castiel, his adjusted and well-cut clothes, his clean hair and his notable lack of piercings or visible tattoos. He had a deep voice and beautiful blue eyes that she immediately appreciated. It was a little bit before seeing the little wrinkles that magnified Dean Winchester's green eyes when he smiled while shaking her hand. He had a firm and frank handshake who helped her to override the ring that was in his lip, those on his ears and the green stone above his cheekbone.

She made the remark to herself that, without making him more attractive, the jewelery suited him quite well. They seemed to be part of him, while Kevin and Sam's looked more like a challenge thrown in the face of the world. Dean Winchester looked like a man who knew exactly who he was and had no problem with flaunting it. Kevin him, seemed to try to find himself, to try to resemble this man whom she had heard a lot of good of. Shaking his hand she realized a bit why Kevin was so attached to him.

"You didn't find Charlie?" Dean asked Sam after having made them all sit down and having offered them coffee. Linda made a mental note to teach these boys how to make real coffee before leaving, the one in which she was soaking her lips was revolting. The young man shook his head.

"She doesn't answer the phone and no one has seen her since her soundcheck."

"I'll take care of that." Castiel said, standing up to retrieve his phone in the pocket of his backpack. "She's going to answer to _me_."

"Oh and why that?" Dean said wryly over his coffee.

"Because everyone answer my calls. You know, if perchance I was dying and I wanted to make a dying wish, none of you would want to hear it on the answering machine!"

Sam and Kevin stifled a chuckle, Channing felt strangely unease and Linda realized suddenly that it really was Castiel. The Castiel whom Kevin spoke of as the most courageous and stupid person in the world. The Castiel who had violated about every federal laws on organ donation to find Dean and who had been the first to put into words what the music was for them all. She heard the voice of her son at the Thanksgiving dinner two years ago.

"_You know mom, Castiel... He thinks that music saved us all. And I think he's right. I don't know why, but I think he's right_."

"So no one has the right to talk about your illness except when it's helpful to you?" Dean teased.

"Exactly." Castiel leaned toward him to lay a quick kiss on his lips, his phone to his ear. Linda heard ringing on the other end of the line while Castiel shook Kevin's shoulder beside her.

"I'll bring her back." He said before slipping away.

##

"_When the world comes crash and burn around you_

_I would do anything to protect you_"

She had answered his phone call without telling him where she was but curiously he knew. Probably because they shared the need to hide their wounds far away from the compassionate or painful embarrassed glances they attracted. Castiel found Charlie exactly where he expected her to be: hidden in the dark, set back from the scene between several crates of material. She pulled her booted feet against herself when he stumbled into it. He sat beside her in silence, and she handed him an already well started bag of candy. For a long time neither said anything, just listening to the background noise of the roadies calling out for one another and in long intervals, the echo of a sound adjustment or a Larsen effect that made them jump.

"They are worrying for you out there." Castiel said eventually. Charlie shrugged. "You can't hide here indefinitely." Another shrug. "Charlie..."

"It was love at first sight, you know." She interrupted him. He raised his eyebrows. "Dorothy, I fell in love at first sight."

He stifled a chuckle. "Love at first sight doesn't exist." He said, picking into the bag of candy.

"You didn't fell for Dean straight away?"

"Oh God no. Oh no..."

Castiel mentally repassed his encounter with Dean Winchester and no, it had clearly not been love at first sight. No glitter rain nor slow motion effect to the sound of violins. Just the rancid smell of an old bar with a dusty light, and his voice in a poorly tuned micro. There hadn't been an ounce of romance in the first beers they had shared and not much more in their first kiss. To tell the truth, love and romance had come way much later.

"I totally fell head over heels for her. She was so..."

"Pretty?" Castiel offered.

Charlie shook her head. "Different. Strong. As if she was the only person around to know where she was going. She asked Sam for a cigarette and looked down at his hand to light it with the flame of his lighter. Cas... I had never seen anything more beautiful than this simple gesture. The movement of her hair, and how her eyes never left the flame, I wanted her to look at me the way she was looking at the fire."

"She did so."

Charlie stared at him with the hard look she always had when she thought people were making fun of her. "She did. I saw her look at you when you couldn't see her. Without blinking, without moving her head, almost without breathing, sometimes it was scary to see, like a hawk looking at a prey, except that hawks don't look at mice like that. Not with that kind of admiration."

Charlie had a lump in the throat that she tried to make disappear with a candy. "That didn't stop her to leave me."

Castiel had nothing to respond to that. He probably wasn't the best person to console her. Dean would have had the right words because he had the talent to instinctively know what people needed, what they needed to hear. Sam would have hugged her because it seemed to him that it was the only thing he could do, try to protect the people he loved from the outside world. Kevin would probably have wrapped her in a blanket, made her a hot drink and hidden her in a corner with a book because it was what he did when he wasn't fine. Castiel didn't know what to do except listening to Charlie chewing her sweets. Curiously she was the one to save him with a sigh, pushing the almost empty packet.

"Why can't it be easy, as for you and Dean?"

He bit the inside of his cheeks to prevent to blurt a harsh remark that slipped from his mouth anyway. "You think it's easy?"

"Well it sure looks like it."

"It isn't. It had never been."

"But yet you're... you seem..."

Castiel smiled and shifted his position, bringing his legs under him and turned to face her. "You know what'll happen tonight after the concert? We'll have a slanging match. A big one. And I won't have any way to avoid it because even if I slip out right away he'll leave a voicemail on my phone and whatever I do I know I'll eventually listen to it. And I can tell you exactly what he'll reproach me for. Being stupid and a reckless idiot, that I shouldn't have taken a plane or tired myself this much, that if anything happens to me he won't forgive himself and that I don't have the right to jeopardize my health for something as trivial as a concert."

Charlie smiled because it actually looked like the messages that Dean could leave when he was angry.

"And?" She asked. She almost wanted him to continue to tell her the story even though it hadn't happened yet.

"And I'll tell him that it's my life, that I'll do whatever I want of it and that we have to die of something anyway. And anyhow I feel good thank you don't need to worry, I'll sleep more next week that's all." He was smiling, imagining the scene which however had nothing funny. It was just an argument they had had so many times before that he had no trouble picturing Dean getting annoyed or the disapproving line of his mouth.

"You're saying that like it's no big deal to know that you'll fight in a few hours..."

"It isn't. Because it's common. We argue Charlie, all couples do, everyone fights at least once from time to time. What holds us together isn't to always agree, it's just to always be reconciled!"

"And how you do that?"

He smiled again. "The first thing you learn when you sleep with a musician, it's the effect that music has on him. I have a special playlist for reconciliations. It works every time."

For the first time he saw her give a faint smile. "I'm not sure it'll work for us." She said thoughtfully. "I think she never had the intention to stay with me after the end of the tour."

"So what you risk to try to change her mind? At the risk of losing her, at least give you the satisfaction of having tried."

She nodded slowly. "You know what's the hardest? Going on stage when you really don't want to."

He nodded even if he didn't really know what it was like. "Can you put what you feel in your music? Use the grief or resentment to play better?"

She nodded. "That's what I do for a week."

"Does it relieve you?"

"A bit, yeah."

##

"_You know, dreamer,_

_How you think we're friends but we're much better_

_You know, lover,_

_I miss your arms when they can't pull me closer_"

When Castiel and Charlie returned to Dean's dressing room, it was almost time for the concert, they could already hear the crowd beginning to fill the hall. Sam put his arm around the shoulders of the girl after having introduced her to Linda and Channing and dragged her out.

"Where are they going?" Channing asked.

"To get ready." Kevin answered. He smiled at the surprised looks of his mother and friend. "What? Even musicians have working outfits! You'll never see these two on stage in such normal clothes."

Linda frowned, puzzled. It did not seem to her that could be called "normal" the attire in which she had seen Charlie, in torn shorts, wearing a t-shirt too big for her and so transparent that she could make out the outline of her underwears. She didn't even dare imagine what Sam's stage outfit must've looked like. Her perplexity (and the word was weak) must have shown on her face because Kevin and Dean smiled.

"Besides, mom, I'm not sure that the trouser suit is the most suitable outfit for a concert."

Next to Kevin, Channing frantically shook her head, Linda crossed her arms defensively.

"I'm fine as I am young man!" She retorted. "I went to concerts long before you were born!"

"Maybe not that kind of concerts mom."

Linda raised her eyebrows with an amused pinch of mouth. Children's ability to deny that their parents had had a life before them always amused her a lot. Castiel had retrieved his bag and slipped into the adjoining bathroom to the dressing room to change. Linda hadn't expected to see him going out transformed, but obviously, in some people, the clothes made the man. The first thing she saw was the change in Dean's thoughtful and tired face, the smile that stretched his lips and his instinctive movement to catch the young man and draw him to himself that was aborted by remembering that he was watched. Castiel seemed to stand somewhat more straight, but it was probably the absence of his jacket that made him look taller, he moved quietly into a fitted jeans that had the merit to be neither torn nor faded. He had his street shoes in hand and was rummaging in his bag to pull out a pair of blue trainers which Linda wondered if he had chosen them because they matched his eyes? His short-sleeved T-shirt revealed his arms where the first thing she saw was the aging sign of ancient bruises and a tattoo on his wrist that she had to look several times before realizing that it was a dandelion blowed in the wind.

Channing was talking with Kevin and Linda watched Dean help the young man to hook a wristband to the non tattooed wrist with an ease that indicated they had been doing this for a long time.

"I will also attend the concert Mrs. Tran. Do you want me to guide you?" The young man asked politely. Probably too politely for someone who had just metamorphose from a neat and tidy accountant to a… the only word that came to Linda's mind was "teenager". He looked barely older than Kevin, yet also much older. Even when Dean, consciously or not ran a hand through his hair to tousle it with a smile.

"Better." The singer said, like for himself, as if he was putting the final touches to a work of art.

Linda nodded. There was something about this young man she didn't really manage to grasp. Even knowing his story, even having him in front of her, Castiel called her to mind more than the members of Free Will, more than Kevin's piercings.

"You're going with them?" Kevin offered to Channing. "I'll change too."

Linda then realized they were holding hands and hid a smile, turning to Castiel.

"Let's go?" He nodded and escorted them to the pit. The place was already full and noisy and they weaved in and out to a location close to the stage. She avoided looking at the people she overtook fearing that they might accuse her of taking a place they'd probably struggle to get.

"Don't worry about them." Castiel said. "Everybody will move during the concert and I would like you to see Kevin as close as possible. He's very... interesting to watch playing."

Channing had a huge grin. "You almost said "beautiful"."

Castiel nodded. "I didn't want for it to be misinterpreted, but yes. He is beautiful when he plays. Sometimes the music transports him and he is trully splendid to watch and to listen."

"Do you come often?" Linda asked.

He nodded. "As much as I can. It makes me feel good."

"Why?"

He took a moment to answer.

"Because..." He started. "I'm an accountant. I don't have a particularly interesting life, but when I'm here..." He pointed at the crowd with a movement of the chin and Linda saw Channing nodding as though she had understood something that still eluded her. "Here I can be whoever I want, I can express the emotions I want, nobody cares. In the worst case some feel the same."

"Yet they don't play Mozart." Linda said by pinching her lips. Castiel made a little irritated head movement.

"Some people are touched by Mozart, others by Free Will." He said, flustered. Then, more gently: "It's the music that matters you know. Sam would say that what matters is to make people scream without touching them. Charlie would say that it is rather to heal their soul and to forget the past. And Kevin... He thinks that the matter is that it makes you pursue your dreams at least up to the sky."

Linda smiled, hardly resisting the urge to touch him, to put her hand on his shoulder as she would have done if it was Kevin speaking.

"And for you, what does matter?"

Castiel was staring into space toward the scene where a roadie was tuning Charlie's green bass.

"Love." He answered. "And hope."

Channing gave him a puzzled look.

"Music brings hope you know." Castiel said for the girl before getting lost again in the contemplation of the empty stage as if talking to himself. "Sometimes it's the rhythm of the drums that rocks you until you fall asleep or wake you up with a start in the morning like a blow in the chest. Sometimes it's just this one perfect line in a song that holds your attention and speaks to you so hard that it makes you drop the razor blade before you cut yourself. Other times it's a guitar riff that carries you away when you don't expect it. And you can't stop yourself from thinking that it's worth fighting for, that life isn't so bad as long as you can rely on that feeling every time you hear that special song."

Linda nodded slowly but Castiel didn't see her, he was lost in his thoughts, in a feeling he hadn't seen coming and was threatening to cut him off. He was away from the madding crowd and the light deodorant scent in the air. "But overall." He continued, this time turning his face to Linda. "It's mainly love that we feel. The Beatles said it better than me, but the important thing is love, always. We all have that song that reminds us of a friend, a relative, a lover and you smile with them in mind whenever you hear it. This band, for me... at first it was nothing more than a second chance, the music of a man who didn't even know he had saved my life. Then it was sex in dark alleys, do not get caught and never talk about our feelings. And then, one morning you wake up and you realize that the only thing you want to see, opening your eyes, is his face on the pillow next to yours. The only sound you want to hear is his voice telling you that the coffee is ready. And when I listened to him singing after realizing that, it struck me. How much it was strange not to be born together when my worst fear is that we could die separated. And all that, it has always been wrapped in music. Music only speaks of love Mrs. Tran, and love only speaks of life."

Linda didn't answer because the lights had gone out, and the cries of the crowd beating in her ears would have covered her words. But she groped for the young man's hand, not really surprised to find it trembling, and gripped it. Strongly.

"_But if I fall from grace_

_You'll be my one escape_

_After all we used to say_

_Family doesn't end with blood_

_It's you I turn to when I need to be hold_

_It's me you'll all turn to when we'll grow old_"


	13. Chapter 13 : Can I Tell You Something

**Warnings: **Slightly inherent agoraphobia, reference to character death, reference to character loss, pain due to inherent character death

* * *

**Chapter 13:** Can I tell you something?

"_Can I tell you something?_

_Promise not to tell another soul_

_We know every nightmare is real,_

_And we have to fight ours on our own_"

Channing disliked the crowd. It had always scared her. Whenever she saw a large gathering of people she couldn't help but imagine falling and dying suffocated or trampled during a sudden mass movement. She disliked standing for too long, it gave her a backache. But that night, the public almost literally carried her.

The shouting around her probably made her lose some hearing points, but it was worth it. On stage, Kevin was transformed. It was like watching a cartoon where the hero or heroine puts on their costume and changes their identity to save the world. It was exactly the same thing that was happening with him as he raised his eyes in astonishment and then thrilled on the big screens which were displaying messages of support and love, which were all intended for him. Beside her, Linda had brought her hands to her face and was holding back her tears. She herself felt absurdly happy for her friend, and a little embarrassed too. The Kevin she remembered disliked excessively capture people's attention, he was discreet, polite, almost diffident for anyone who didn't know him.

The Kevin she had in front of her, just a short distance ranks was nothing like that. He was in his place, he was smiling, wearing black jeans on which someone (or himself) had wiped his hands full of phosphorescent paint, in a white t shirt on which she had taken several songs to recognize the band logo printed in purple. From where she was, she could see his piercing glowing depending on the lighting. She had counted them earlier in the evening. One on the arch, three on the ear besides the spacers, one on the chin, one on the nose.

He was no longer the boy with broken dreams she had seen coming back from Princeton. This Kevin must have die somewhere on stage and be reborn in a keyboard chord, taller and stronger. There was a moment of wavering when the screens gave way to a focus on the stirred face of Kevin who was wiping his nose in his wrist. Channing turned to Linda.

"I think he found his niche." She shouted to cover the screams and applauses. Linda was clapping her hands and nodded, she leaned over the girl to be heard.

"Better, he found his place."

Beside her, Castiel was smiling.

Linda doubted to one day get over her son's transformation. She could blame any generation gap, or blame herself for being reactionary and prim and proper, but piercings were almost as badly acceptable as the clothes he had chosen to appear in public. In big public she had to note. But the smile of her son warmed her heart. The last time she had seen him with this expression, he had received his letter of acceptance to Princeton.

When later they joined him behind the scenes, she hugged him in her arms, tight. He hugged her back, a little puzzled.

"I'm proud of you, very proud." She said, squeezing her son's face in her hands. That smile, that expression, was the only thing she wanted to see on his face for the rest of her life. And if he needed this strange family he had formed for that, Linda Tran didn't really mind.

##

"_The empty road stretching under our wheels_

_Going from one horror to another_

_We know every nightmare is real_

_And we're paralized in terror_"

Charlie, Dean and Sam had left the scene during one of Kevin's solo, taking him by surprise, stuck in a ray of blue light. They were watching him from the backstages, looking up to the giant screens where, as he played, popped messages which were intended for him. Castiel had collected them on social networks, fan forums and had made a compilation of compliments and positive thoughts that were now passing to the view of all, and particularly of Channing and Linda. After Kevin's solo Dean would go back on stage for the acoustic session and Charlie took advantage of the few minutes remaining to slip into his arms. The cello notes were lingering, drowned by the muffled cries of the crowd and she began to cry against his shoulder. He had closed his arms around her from automatism and was gently rocking her before even having really realized she was crying.

"You know you're stealing his moment to Kevin?" He said by leaning his head a little to lay a kiss on her temple. She sniffled and nodded, but deep down, she didn't care. Kevin could have his moment and she could fall to pieces two minutes. Just two minutes to remember that never in the hall there would be someone to be proud of her and look at her with the admiration of a mother.

She had the impression of being a doll that get passed when Dean released his grip and pushed her to Sam for her to finish crying while he retrieved his guitar and went back on stage. Sam didn't rock her. She doubted he even was physically able to, he simply wrapped his big frame around her and watched the scene over her shoulder as she twisted and creased his tank top in her tight fist.

"Is it because of Dorothy?" He asked softly.

Dean wouldn't have asked the question. Perhaps because he would have guessed by himself, or maybe because he generally preferred to stay away from this kind of topics. She shrugged, realizing that her constant state of distress for several days had indeed everything to do with Dorothy, but tonight it wasn't the problem. Tonight, she was just feeling very alone while Kevin was finally so surrounded. She felt guilty for being so jealous of her friend, after all, of them all he was the one who was the more cut off from the world during the tour. But that didn't stop her from feeling alone and miserable.

Sam still had an arm around her shoulders when he held her bass out and they went up on stage. He held her against him just a half second too long, enough for Kevin to throw them a curious glance over his beatific smile and the drummer motionned him with the end of a drumstick that he would explain later.

The sound and the bass vibrations always calmed Charlie. She could focus on clenching her fingers on the neck, the monitors in her ear protector, the cries of the crowd, the echo of the drumroll that were reverberated in her bones. The music was shaking the scene under her sneakers as if it wanted to change her center of gravity and gradually, Charlie found herself swinging in rhythm, smiling slightly. Had to smile. Had to pretend, make people believe that it was easy to get on stage, even having sore hands and even with the heart in shreds. But the smile rarely remained fake for a long time. The music had the power to catch her by the edge of the soul and wrap around it to become the only important thing in the world.

"_So I have an arsenal in my trunk_

_And you besides me, riding shotgun,_

_Sky is our only permanent roof_

_Salt and burn all the remains that could be a proof_"

Charlie felt almost drunk when coming down the scene after the recall. The light had been turned on again behind the scenes and she caught the green glow of her bass when she removed it. The color was nothing new. The instrument had been offered by their producer just before the start of the tour. Crowley had held it out to her in a case beribboned in red and she had accepted it grudgingly, knowing she should therefore put her old beloved Rickenbacker away in favor of the brand-new Precision. But the sound of the latter suited incredibly well to Free Will's lives. The deep, round, almost smooth sound, perfectly accompanied Dean's voice and compensated the more high-pitched sound of his guitar.

She had conceived resentment towards Crowley for that. The instrument was costly, thought out for her ("green like your eyes" had said the producer), but it was the incarnation of a form of liability to marketing that she found very unpleasant. If Sam and Dean resented the cuts in their songs or the smoothing of their music, Charlie didn't like being imposed her instrument nor the sound that came out of it. She had named the Precision after Dorothy has pointed out to her that if Sid Vicious had been able to play punk rock with a Precision, she could surely get something pretty not smooth of it to annoy Crowley. It had made her smile.

The Fender was called the Wizard of OZ from that day and it was a joke between the two women. For everyone, the name had been chosen because the instrument was green like the Emerald City. In fact, the name referred to Crowley as a cheap junk magician only turned to theatricality. And this gave Charlie a sense of control over the nearly poisoned chalice he had given her. She regarded for a while the reflections in the green micro-particles before storing the instrument in its case. She had made a decision somewhere between the applause and the song of the recall and she wouldn't turn around.

Backed to the tourbus, smoking a cigarette, nose raised to the clouds lazily passing in front of the moon and temporarily darkening the parking lot, Dorothy watched the bassist approach in a rush. Charlie could have decipher her expression even in total darkness. She really didn't know where to start or what she would say when she opened her mouth. The words sprung out of her under the scope of emotion and adrenaline, tangled, incoherent and silly but they wanted to come out.

"I'm gonna fight." She said fists clenched, advancing towards Dorothy. "I don't care what we said one year ago. I want it to continue and I won't let you throw me out of your life like I don't mean anything! I'll fight because I deserve to be treated better than that."

Dorothy leaned her head to the side as if she needed a new perspective on the bassist. She dropped her cigarette and crushed it under the heel of her sneaker without a word. Words, Charlie had for both.

"You'll find it stupid, but I don't care, I want it to be romantic like in a movie." The redhead continued. "I want my great love story. I want the warrior princess. And I refuse to accept less than the big adventure! I wanna fight with you, against you, and for us to make up in bed. I want to be scared to death and you to comfort me. I wanna do illegal things with you, stupid things, I… I want my epic love and I want it with you!"

Dorothy smiled and Charlie felt suddenly really angry. She had no right to smile when she was opening her heart!

"But the big adventure is already started, Red."

"Don't make fun of me!"

"I don't." Dorothy said, approaching her. "I'm deadly serious. The big adventure is started. Whether I like it or not." She had placed her hands on Charlie's cheeks and plunged her eyes into hers. "And that's why it's so hard, why the future scares me so much. Because this adventure, nobody knows if it'll end well. That's why being together is a bad idea." She was close enough that Charlie still feel the whiff of her cigarette in her breath.

"I don't mind being scared. Others survive much worse." Charlie said, placing her hands on the hips of her partner. "And I'm ready to fight against the entire world if necessary!" It seemed easy, cruelly easy to make up at this moment. As if by pretending that nothing had existed they could brush away with their hand every single day that Charlie had dragged her sentence like a millstone, ignoring the ball of loneliness grewing in Dorothy's belly.

"The entire world doesn't care." Dorothy said, moving Charlie's hair from her face. It was too dark to really see the green of her eyes but she could imagine it and that was enough. The lump in her stomach, full of cigarette smoke and words chewed until being nothing more than a mush she hardly choked back, was begining to dissipate. Dorothy wondered by what stupidity they had let things endorse and when it would have simply suffice to exchange a few words to not lose so much time to suffer each in her corner.

"Good."

Charlie had closed her eyes, had stood on tiptoe to be able to kiss her because there was no way that their talk concludes by other means than a kiss. Those were days of tears and frustration that Dorothy tasted on Charlie's lips, days of fear and pain she felt in the back of her head where the nails of the bassist sank like to brand her.

She hugged her against herself tight enough to print the fold of her clothes on her chest, tight enough for the pressure of their busts against each other to be painful, but they didn't break the kiss. Possessive and resolute, as a way of promise to belong to one another. Had they been able to reach the bus without detaching their lips, they would have done it. They contented themselves to mutually push each other inside, one pinning the other against the door barely closed by locking it gropingly, their hands already under their clothes, and no matter who'd want to enter, who would see them go out, for now only the two of them mattered.

##

"_Everyone say we're criminals,_

_Killing our way through life,_

_And the day of our trial,_

_We'll just say we had no other choice_"

Sam had lingered after the concert, half sprawled on the keyboard, sitting on the small stool that Kevin used to play the cello, he was plinking some notes heard earlier on the radio when Madison approached. He shifted slightly to let her sit next to him without stop playing softly, the sound strangely echoing in the empty hall.

"That was a good show." She said. He nodded.

"I think Kevin's mother was very touched."

"She had a reason to be."

He continued to play in loop the same three bars of the chorus of the song he didn't even know the title.

"Sam."

"Hem?"

"I'm sorry. For the other night. I wanted to apologize. This isn't how I should have reacted."

He shrugged. "I already said it was no big deal."

"Still." The sound of the keys was beginning to irritate Madison and she wanted him to look at her rather than keep looking down at the keyboard. She slipped her hand next to his until he stops playing to wrap his long fingers around hers, rubbing his thumb against her wrist. It was a habit he probably wasn't aware of. "I'm sorry. And I'm sad too."

"About what?"

"That I can't be her. I know she had reacted properly." He now was looking at her with an expression both puzzled and sad. He squeezed her hand almost without realizing it.

"I'm also sorry." He said quietly. "Sorry to be like him so much. Sorry to be exactly the kind of person you don't want in your life."

Madison nodded, trying to watch something other than Sam's eyes, the shadows of his sweaty wisps who stuck to his forehead. Trying to see something else than the sunflowers at the bottom of his pupils and the shiny silver of his piercings.

"I still want to try."

The words had blurted out of her, taking advantage of the distraction caused by the piercings, by a flutter of lashes of Sam to sneak out of her mind. Curiously she didn't regret them, but her heart began to pound abnormally fast by seeing his expression change, moving from pensive and sad to… something else. As a mischievous glint that shone in his eyes while a smile slowly stretched his lips. Now she could watch his dimples and focuse on it. It made her want to smile too.

"Me either." He said, and suddenly his hand was on Madison's cheek, or maybe it was there for a long time? He watched her flutter her eyelashes as if clearing up her view would clear her mind, and with his thumb he brushed the slight blush of her cheeks before leaning toward her to kiss her, his fingers clutching Madison's neck, where the hair was a soft, warm blanket. They had both closed their eyes, their noses banged making them giggle, he could feel the pulse of the young woman under his hand, their hearts were beating as fast as the other. They guided each other, slowly, savoring the few seconds before the inevitable kiss before their lips join. For a second, maybe two they remained motionless, without breathing, just invaded by the new feeling, tasting the lips of the other, their texture, the salt taste of Sam's, the smooth slide of the balm on Madison's.

Then they were standing, her on tiptoes, hanging on Sam's neck until he lift her up with one arm, wrapped her legs around his waist with the other and carried her to a wall while she clung to his hair, laughing. As soon as they were settled, her, pressed against the wall, him, pressed against her, they began to kiss again, this time exploring each other, moaning occasionally, only stopping breathless to look at each other for a second and laugh again.

It seemed to Madison that the sunflowers in Sam's eyes were larger, more yellow than before. Then she didn't see them anymore when he closed his eyes and laid a line of kisses along her jaw to her neck where he buried his head as if it were its natural place while she dug her nails into his hair and shoulder.

##

"_Can I tell you something?_

_Promise not to tell another soul,_

_Freedom is a length of rope_

_God wants you to hang yourself with it_

_But it's still worth fighting for_"

Castiel and Dean said nothing during the short taxi ride that took them to the hotel where the team had booked rooms. Castiel leaned against the door to close it behind him while Dean put their bags down on the thick carpet, shivering in the cold air conditioning.

"You're annoyed with me." Castiel said thoughtfully without leaving his position, the hand still on the door handle.

Dean sighed and took off his jacket which he threw on the bed before sitting on it while passing a hand over his face.

"No. Yes. I don't know Cas. I asked you to send me a USB key, no to escort it to the other end of the country."

Castiel shrugged and also sat down on the bed. "It was just an excuse to see you."

"I know, and it's absurd. We return to LA in less than two weeks. You couldn't wait until then?" Dean grumbled.

Castiel scowled suddenly. Without answering he stood up and slammed the door of the small bathroom behind him, he let the shower water soak his hand, then the bottom of his jeans while trying to adjust the temperature.

"I'm sorry." Dean said entering after making a few discreet knocks on the door. Castiel shrugged.

"Me either."

"Are we really going to argue for that?"

New shrug. "It's up to you. Can you hear that I'm fine, and that whatever you say about it, if I want to cross the country twice in one weekend to see you, I will do so?"

Dean chuckled and entered completely into the bathroom to take him in his arms. "Can you hear that it'll still worry me anyway?"

Castiel nodded. Dean had passed his hands under his shirt and found on his hip a bandage half detached by sweat. He gave her a questioning look in the mirror and began to tear as delicately as possible the stacking of compresses and Band-Aid to uncover the brand new tattoo. He ran his thumb on the phrase covered with a layer of cream so thick that it tarnished the black ink and hid the red inflammation around the letters. He recognized his own handwriting and smiled, spreading the cream with fingertips to decipher every word. "_Worth fighting for_".

His concerns seemed suddenly ridiculous and inappropriate and he took his lover's face in his hands to kiss him, spreading the healing cream onto it. There were fights that needed to be conducted, but he decided that those who opposed him to Castiel were not part of the list.

##

"_We're criminals and hellbound_

_But I like the empty road under our wheels_

_Having you riding shotgun_

_Hell doesn't know how good I feel_"

"Dotty?"

"Hum?"

"Remember the cliff thing?" Charlie asked lazily. She felt her partner turning slightly in the small bunk where they were lying to try to look at her but she already couldn't open her eyes anymore. Dorothy regained her first position with her back to the wall of the bus, arms and legs wrapped around the bassist, and pressed her lips to her forehead above her bangs.

"Of course I remember."

It was hard to believe that it dated back to a year now. They had just left LA and Dorothy had only seen the group on two occasions before they got in the bus, heckling. The first part of the ride had been without incident, they had made a first stop in Malibu before taking the Pacific Coast Highway to St. Louis. They had exactly thirty hours to reach Monterey and that would require the drivers to take turns and get soaked with coffee shortly. The motor failure of a hardware trucks had forced them to stop at the edge of a cliff to the great annoyance of Dorothy. She hated wasting time. She remembered that when Charlie had approached her, she was leaning on the guardrail overlooking the sea and was wondering if it would be better to take a nap or to prepare a tonic. Charlie had let out a delighted exclamation when leaning over the railing.

"There's a staircase!"

"So what?" Dorothy had almost resolved to return to the roadies bus when she had seen out of the corner of her eye Charlie pulling her shirt out of her shorts. "What are you doing?"

"If there's a staircase it means you can back up!" The young woman had answered as if it was a self-evident fact. From the other side of the road the bus door had slammed and Dorothy remembered with a smile Dean barreling toward them by calling Charlie an idiot.

The redhead had bursted of laughter, throwing her shirt on the floor as well as her sandals before climbing on the railing with a small wince when the metal grazed her foot. She greeted Dorothy with a nod and before the latter could reach her, plunged into the void as far as the strength of her legs enabled her to. Dorothy barely stifled a yelp and leaned over the railing along with Dean, just in time to see Charlie finish her fall within five meters of the cliff in a jet of splashes.

"Damn, I hate when she does that!" Dean shouted, striking the guardrail.

"She often does that?"

Dean had nodded, gloomily.

"Last time, the time to go back, she had bleeding feet." He groused, following the progress of the girl with his eyes until she disappeared at the corner of a rock not far from the small beach that bordered the foot of the cliff. Eventually he actually realized the presence of Dorothy and gave a little smile of apology. "If you want to return the keys do it right away, because it's always a bit like that with her and Sam isn't better." He advised.

Dorothy smiled for the first time of the day. Her heart was beating very fast of a retrospective fear and the wind was drying in her back a cold sweat she perceived only now.

"She's crazy?"

Dean nodded. "Absolutely loony." He confirmed.

"She has guts."

"That's a way to put it."

When Charlie reached the top of the stairs, the bassist still had legs red where they had hit the water probably in a very painful angle. But she was grining, cheeks red of excitement, moving her soaked hair from her face where the wind persisted to pull them back. She smiled at Dorothy and offered her a wet and icy hand.

"Charlie Bradbury." She presented herself.

"Dorothy. Baum."

It was strange to think it dated back to a year. Since then she had seen Charlie do things even more stupid, dangerous or illegal and that was part of her partner she appreciated as much as it terrorized her. She understood why Charlie enjoyed playing with fire so much. There was like a need for adrenaline, a need for thrills that the scene wasn't always enough to give her. A need to feel alive, even briefly, like when Dorothy was slaloming between cars in motorcycle.

She hugged the bassist harder against her in the cramped space, her lips still on her forehead.

"Of course I remember." She whispered although Charlie was asleep and couldn't hear her.

She remembered it as the day she had first been taken with Charlie.


	14. Chapter 14 : Satisfaction

**Warnings: **Swearing

* * *

**Chapter 14: **Satisfaction

This was a particularly strange feeling, probably because he hadn't expected it. Kevin knew Channing since almost forever. That he feels comfortable in her company had something natural that shouldn't have surprise him. For how long hadn't he seen her? Six months? A year? Since the previous Christmas? Thanksgiving?

But the conversation naturally flowed between the three of them in the peaceful atmosphere of the restaurant chosen by his mother. Seeing them both in the afternoon, he had almost felt ill. There were things that his mother wasn't supposed to know or see. Her to see him with his piercings, on stage, was almost more disturbing that if she had caught him hand in the bra of a girl. And the look she had had was exactly the one he had feared. A little contempt, compassion tinged with horror and disappointment. But it went back several hours and now he had only his mother and his friend in front of him. Channing hadn't seemed surprised or shocked by his appearance even if he saw her focus on his piercings when she thought he wasn't looking at her anymore.

He looked at her all the time. And he wondered why it didn't do anything to him. He was in love with this girl for so long... His heart should have beat wildly, his hands tremble. He should have stammer and not daring to meet her eyes. Instead, everything seemed natural and his greatest challenge came from his mother and his fear of her judgment. But curiously, this fear had vanished when he had come down from the stage after the concert to hug her.

Channing remained. Channing and her just plain dreams, her shiny hair and loud laughter. Channing who hadn't made any comment when he had returned from Princeton. Who peacefully studied at the University of Michigan and would eventually settle into a simple and busy life with the person of her choice. With children and a garden bordered by a small white fence. There was a time when Kevin had dreamed of that too. Do major studies, getting an important and well-paid profession, live a quiet and hardworking life.

All that was before. Before his dream was reduced to nothing by his inability to follow the path he had chosen. Before he forges a second dream to the sound of cello. Before he took one way ticket to LA without telling anyone, and land in the Winchester recording studio. They needed an extra that day. A simple string score he had recorded in one hour for fifty dollars. They had recalled him two days later for other songs. And again the following week. They had eventually integrated him to the group when Charlie had remarked that anyway they would have to play the songs on stage right? He could still hear her condescending tone as she explained to Sam that a live cellist was always better than a tape recording.

He found himself smiling in taking them to their hotel. Linda hugged him one last time in her arms, made him promise to visit her more frequently after the end of the tour and left the two young people alone. They were silent for a moment, sitting on the steps leading to the hotel. Not that they no longer have anything to say, but the time seemed inopportune to steer the conversation on anything.

"Why did you take so long to call me?" Channing eventually asked. "Were you ashamed of me?"

Kevin looked at her, shocked and surprised. "Ashamed?" The idea had never occurred him that she could think that. She nodded.

"It's not like I'm your coolest acquaintance." She muttered, bringing her knees against herself. "And you left without saying anything..."

"I wasn't sure of... Channing, we always talked about the life we'd have when we'd be grown up. You never heard me talk about being a rock star… it's not like I had managed to achieve my dreams or..." Kevin paused one second the time to swallow the lump he had in the throat. "It's not like I have something to be proud of."

Channing returned him a surprised and almost annoyed look. "Not like you had something to be proud of? Are you kidding me?" She waited for him to answer but nothing came. With an exasperated sigh, she folded her arms around her knees and rested her chin there. "You're stupid." She grumbled.

Kevin had a rictus. "You think it's stupid to think that the life I lead has nothing to do with what I wanted? Channing, I love what I do... The band... They gave me a chance when I thought I had no more. The fact remains that this isn't the life I had dreamed about. And seeing you with my mom... I thought she was going to have a heart attack by recognizing me." He said, putting his hand to one of his piercings. Channing laughed.

"She isn't used to see you like that. I think it suits you." She said, touching one of his spacers with her fingertips.

"You got used to it pretty fast."

She shook her head. "You think I've never seen you with?" She realized to his surprised look that it was the case. "I missed playing with you. The University orchestra... it's not the same. So when your mother told me about your group, I sought your solos on Youtube. I learned them all by heart and I played with you at my computer."

Kevin smiled. "I don't know if it's the most adorable or the scariest thing I've ever heard." He joked. He realized he had mimiced her position and now they had to look like two hairy eggs sitting on the hotel steps.

"Your fans have inevitably done creepier stuff than that." She groused. "It's not my fault if I missed you."

Kevins knew that the confession should have make his heart leap for joy. But it didn't, it was just comfortable and predictable. He took Channing's hand into his.

"I missed you too. And I also miss playing with you." He thought of his cello carefully stored in its case in a hardware truck, Channing's old violin and the hours they had spent practicing just the two of them. There was a slight unsaid between them that should have been uncomfortable, but wasn't.

"I guess we wouldn't be there if things had been different." Channing said quietly. "If hadn't separated before being together..."

Kevin nodded. "If we hadn't taken different paths."

"It could have work."

"Bad timing."

She nodded and squeezed his fingers. "I still miss you, you know."

"Me either."

"Just don't stay this long without giving news to me again. It gives me the impression that you're not my friend anymore."

He nodded. "Promised."

##

The road stretched into a long straight line under the wheels of the bus and Charlie had forgotten the name of their destination.

"I wanna change the contract terms." She said, playing along with her toes painted in black on the dashboard. She was beginning to get a sunburn on her knees and moved to rest her feet on the ground, managing God only knew how to stay in doing so completely sprawled in her seat, neck almost cut by the seat belt. Dorothy wondered for a long time if she had copied her ability to take improbable positions on Sam?

"There's no contract." She pinpointed, turning her attention on the road again.

"You know what I mean." Charlie grumbled.

"Yes." Indeed, she knew. "Change them for what exactly?"

"Oh, the classic stuff. We stay together until we can't bear each other."

Dorothy stiffed a chuckle. "It doesn't announce a very long deferment." She laughed. Charlie shrugged.

"It's still better than separate the minute you will return the keys of this bus."

"Maybe not."

Charlie gave her a warning look and Dorothy sighed. "Red... What do we know will happen after this tour? I'm going to get hired elsewhere, you will return to record. Tell me when we'll be able to see each other? And tell me honestly that it's what you want, an episodic relationship? Over the phone like Dean and Castiel? You really think you can stand it when you told me yesterday that you wanted the big adventure with me?"

Charlie scowled and crossed her arms. "It's worth trying." She grumbled.

"Of course it's worth trying." Dorothy said. "But I ask you to be realistic. It's not going to be easy and it will probably be doomed to failure. Are you sure to bear that? To bear to admit that it didn't work? And to do that later when it'll be even harder for both of us?"

"It didn't seem hard for you the other day."

"Yet it was."

There was a moment of silence, barely disturbed by the engine roar and a few loud voices coming from the living area of the bus. Dorothy was so concentrated on the road she took a little time to realize that Charlie had slipped her hand on her knee.

"You know what I liked about you?" The bassist asked with a smile. The driver shook her head. "You looked so sure of yourself. As if you were the only one of us to know what she was doing."

Dorothy burst into laughter which was rare from her and rather incongruous given the circumstances. "It's a front." She said, shaking Charlie's hand briefly before putting hers on the steering wheel. "If I knew what I was doing I would probably not drive musicians throughout the country for a living."

"That's not what interests you, make a living."

Dorothy shook her head. Charlie was right and she wondered how she had come to this conclusion.

"I don't really know what you're running away from or what you thing you're fleeing, but you won't get rid of me so easily." Charlie said, shaking her knee.

Dorothy didn't reply and for several kilometers they listened the boys chat in the back without being able to determine the topic. Then, eventually:

"You know what I liked about you?"

Charlie waited for her to continue and Dorothy clutched her hands on the wheel. She never spoke of her feelings, perhaps because she had grown up in a family where there was little talk, perhaps to protect herself, she didn't intend to look into the situation. But since they were to give themselves a chance to make work a relationship she believed doomed to failure, she could at least force herself to say that.

"You seemed to not know where you were or what you were doing there. And it didn't seem to bother you to be..." She stopped the time to find the right comparison. "To be like a leaf in the wind." It was stupid, she knew that, but it was the first thing that had come to her mind and she thought that her grandmother would have smiled at the comparison.

Charlie smiled and nodded. "If it bothered me, I wouldn't travel throughout the country with a group of musicians for a living." She said.

For half a second, Dorothy was tempted to stop the bus on the roadside to kiss her. The unexpected arrival of Kevin saved her from it and they didn't really talk during the rest of the way. That night, Dorothy slipped behind the scenes to watch Charlie play. She wasn't really interested in the band's music, but now, in the spotlight, leaning on her bass or kneeling on the edge of the stage to be photographed by fans, she saw a Charlie that for a year she had tried her best to ignore. She found the girl naturally endearing, but it was nothing compared to the bright little thing she had in front of her, only driven by the desire to do the best possible show. Charlie was wrong. Dorothy had no idea what she was doing or where she was going and it was in no way comfortable. She just knew that uncertainty about the future was better than what she left behind her day after day for years. She had sat down on a material crate to watch her partner and felt suddenly sad. She knew perfectly well that her life was a headlong rush. That she'd have to, one day, and probably very soon, decide once and for all who she wanted to be and finally confront some old ghosts clung to her since she had taken the road years earlier.

Settle down. The word only seemed terrifying. The simple thought made her grind her teeth.

But curiously, watching Charlie play, listening to the deep notes of the bass, she found herself thinking that as difficult as it sounded, it would be an ordeal she wouldn't have to face alone if Charlie was also ready to launch with her. Their eyes met briefly, or maybe it was just an effect of her imagination and she smiled. She smiled much more since she had met Charlie.

##

A wind harbinger of rain had risen. Dorothy had always loved the wind. To the amusement of her parents, ever since really small she sometimes stopped in the middle of a sentence to sniff the breeze passing and smiled. Growing up she had learned to differentiate the winds and had secretly assigned them a language and signs. She remembered having talked about it to her grandmother who had smiled and had stroked her hair.

The wet dust-laden wind announcing storms in Oklahoma made her smile like the promise of an adventure. The summer one, scalding, almost stuffy, smelling earth, itched her like it enjoined her to leave as far as possible. It was a windy day like this one that had marked her departure years earlier.

She had traveled thousands of kilometers by listening to different winds without ever telling anyone. But sometimes, like that night, it blurted out.

"It's going to rain." She said while she was driving. The sunset was ending and the sky darkened gradually. There wasn't a cloud in sight and Charlie had a sneer.

"Have your crystal ball serviced."

Dorothy smiled. "You'll see." She lowered her window to breathe the smell of the air and felt a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her grandmother called it the inner voice and Dorothy could hear her recommend to listen. Child, she had wondered how she could listen to a voice that didn't utter words. Then she had understood.

She often wondered if the Winchester, and by extension the whole group also listened to that kind of voice. They probably called it inspiration.

At the back of the bus, Sam had fallen asleep curled up in his bed after having lit a candle on the small table at which Dean and Kevin were sitting. The flame flickered to the rhythm of the vehicle bumps and gave off an aroma of cookie being cooked which began to make singer hungry. The sky was darkening, plunging the bus in the dim light without appearing to disturb Kevin in his reading. Dean reached for the switch to turn on the night-light over the head of the young man who thanked him with a brief nod without leaving the page of the eyes. Dean was beginning to fall asleep in his seat until the company reaches the small town where they were to spend the night and eat (and of which he had already forgotten the name) before heading back to Tulsa. It would be one more night in the bunk that was beginning to take the shape of his body, a night less before returning to the Los Angeles apartment.

There were about ten days tour left. Five concerts in three different states, and then, back at home. Maybe it was the smell of cookies that made him vaguely melancholic, or exhaustion, but he crossed his arms, pulled the hood of his sweater over his eyes and let himself be lulled by the purring of the engine and the regular breathing of his brother behind him.

"Hey, Kev?"

"Hum?"

"How did it go with Channing?" He asked, forcing himself to emerge.

"Good."

"And, what else?"

The young man put down his book open, pages against the table and stretched while grumbling. "Not really as I expected."

Dean waited for him to continue. "I really thought I was in love with her, you know."

The singer smiled, thinking he should perhaps wake Sam for him to join in with the conversation, but the idea of uncrossing his arms was already beyond him.

"Actually... Through her, it's probably the image of my old life that I loved you know… As something that you've so idealized that when you finally see it, you're disappointed."

"You've been disappointed?"

Kevin shook his head. "No. Not about her in any case... But it's not what I had expected. It was just as if nothing had changed and that she had come to my home to practice the violin. And it was out of sync. Because I'm not that person anymore. It was like watching all my old dreams in front of me, knowing that I should be proud of what I accomplished. While being almost ashamed of not having been able to follow the path that I had chosen when we were kids."

"You're ashame of us?" Dean joked.

"Not of you. Not of us I mean but... I love my life Dean. I love the life you offered me and I'd change it for nothing in the world. Yet I don't feel like I can be proud of it. We don't change the world, we do nothing more than a little music. I know that's a lot to some, but this isn't what I had dreamed."

Dean nodded thoughtfully.

"None of us are proud of it, to tell the truth." He said. "We all came to the music because we couldn't do anything else. This is what keeps us up, gives us a reason to get up in the morning. I don't think there's something to be proud of, but considering who we are and where we come from, I guess it's at least a satisfaction to have that in our lives."

"A satisfaction." Kevin repeated. "Yes... A satisfaction. I can live with that."

Dean still had his arms crossed, he thoughtfully slipped a hand under his sweater on his hip and touched the small and almost invisible scar from the bone marrow puncture. He was wondering why he had so much trouble to feel any pride for his actions. Why did Castiel see each of his choices as a good thing when he himself felt like he always chose the easy way? Behind him, Sam groaned, sitting up cautiously as the bus was slowing down and was driving into the driveway of a diner in the aftermath of the other trucks. Kevin blew out the candle and the smell of the wick temporarily obliterated the biscuit's.

Charlie got out of the driver cab looking for her shoes and gave a nudge to Sam so that he makes room for her on his bunk while she was putting them. Dean watched the three of them a moment while Sam rubbed his eyes, a child's reflex he had never lost, and that made him look terribly young. They were all terribly young and Dean felt suddenly very old.

"Hey, you ok?" Charlie asked, waving her hand in front of him. He nodded and extracted himself out of his seat, grumbling.

Dorothy came out of the driver cab in turn, pulling her jacket, she remained behind while the others got off the bus, leaving only Dean and her in the faint smell of cookies.

"It's a special night I think." She said.

He nodded. He didn't know exactly why, but the night indeed promised to be special, of those you remember smiling, wondering why they left their mark on you? More than the countless others that you've forgotten?

"We don't leave with the others." The driver talked again. "We take the scenic route to Tulsa."

He grined. "Trying to lead us astray?"

"No need Cowboy, you do that very fine by yourselves." She answered deadpan by gently pushing him to the door. Instinctively he took her hand for her to follow him and he felt her flinch in recoil. "Excuse me." He apologized by releasing her hurriedly. "Sorry..."

She seemed to think for a second before sliding again her hand in his, shaking her head. "I'm just not used to it." She said.

"And I'm too used to it."

She nodded. Dean was one of those people who need physical contact, as light it might be with the people he loved. He didn't even think about it, didn't even realized it and it was touching to see from the outside. The way he leaned close to Kevin as to create shade over him, his ability to fall asleep on Sam's shoulder, and Charlie's hand he held in brushing absent-mindedly the calluses at her fingertips every time they wallowed together to watch a movie. Dean needed contact and Dorothy was strangely comfortable to grant it to him, as if it were a new code them saying that Dean liked her and she was doing him the favor to let him into her personal space. She let go of him when entering the diner and he kept the door opened for her with a smile.

There was an air stream charged with a smell of bacon and she forced herself to not stop to smell it. It was a special night.

She needed coffee.

##

Bobby had thrown them a slightly annoyed look when Dorothy had informed him that they would join the team in Tulsa later in the day without following them that night. She had parked the bus on a camping area near a brazier and Kevin probably would wonder his whole life how she had started a fire this fast with the wet wood of the small and poorly sheltered reserve of the desert camping. Charlie had played to jump over the fire until the flames nearly burn her and Dean forced her to sit at a reasonable distance, beer in hand. The headlights of the bus illuminated them enough to create, around their little group, shadows in which they didn't want to venture. Dorothy had sat down near Charlie and Dean sat on the floor next to Kevin. Sam and Madison were perched beside each other on the hood of the vehicle, slightly in shadow and the fire crackling covered their whispers. Dean was looking at the two couples, Dorothy and Charlie sitting before the fire, Sam and Madison perched on the hood of the bus, their knees drawn up against their chests and Madison gently laughing to something Sam was whispering in her ear.

"What makes you smile?" Kevin asked, bumping into him with his shoulder.

Dean pointed them with the neck of his beer. "I think I'll write a song about it."

"About what?" Charlie asked, looking up. Her face lit by the fire had something a bit twisted that Dorothy's smooth face hadn't.

"About a relationship where one gives strength to the other, and the other brings him some peace."

"Oh please don't turn us into a bobby-soxer group!" The bassist winced.

"You'd love that." Kevin teased. Charlie pretended to throw her beer on his head, a few drops landed in the fire, sizzling.

The subject continued to roll between them without actually reach Madison and Sam on their side of the fire, in fact neither one nor the other listened to the conversation of their friends who quickly gave up on including them to it.

"I feel curiously good." Madison said. Maybe it was the effect of the beer and she made a mental note to reduce her consumption, maybe it was the presence of Sam beside her, or the distant sound of the bus radio broadcasting an old Bruce Springsteen song, anyway she was feeling better than she had been for weeks. "As if I didn't need to escape anything anymore."

This was clearly the beer talking. Dorothy gave her a curious look over the campfire.

"I fled Kurt because I thought it was the more brave I could do. But we're never really free when fleeing... And I don't know why, but I feel that I can stop now."

Sam gave her a light shove. "You're gonna have to toughen up then, or the next blow you'll go back to running."

She smiled and sat up, sliding from the hood to lay her feet on the ground. "Wanna help?" She asked with a smirk. Sam nodded and jumped to his feet. Dorothy watched them turn around each other, pretending to strike blows on either side of the fire, Madison's words stuck in her mind: "_We're never really free when fleeing_."

Sam stood in the light of the front beams in a defensive position.

"Come on, try to hit me for real, just to see."

Madison shook her head while Dean mumbled a "poser" on the other side of the campfire.

"No way for me to even pretend to fight with you! Have you seen the size of your arms?"

"It's not the arms size that matters." Dean said. "The technique is important. Even you should be able to lay him flat with a good technique."

Madison gave him a puzzled look as he stood up, gently placing his not yet empty can on the floor to advance towards the fire. He motioned her to approach while Sam moved away and she did so, sighing exaggeratedly. Charlie had actuated her phone camera and was filming the scene with a grin. Dean pretended to strike a blow to Madison who dodged it with an abrupt movement, putting her hand on his wrist to repulse it before releasing it.

"No. Stay like this." Sam said behind her. "And turn around him to twist his arm in his back." Dean nodded and let her bend his arm to the small of his back.

"Now, if you go fast enough you don't even need strength to hurt, the movement of your opponent will do the work for you and he'll end up..." Sam stopped half a second to wrap his big hand around the wrist of his brother over Madison's hand and to pull it violently upward. Dean yelped more in surprise than pain and fell in the dust. "On his knees..." ended Sam who had found himself leaning over Madison that Dean's fall had destabilized.

"Fuck Sam you could warn!"

"Sorry." The younger apologized, smiling with no sign of remorse. Kevin and Dorothy smiled while Sam sat up and held out a hand to Madison and the other to Dean to help them back on their feet. Charlie stopped filming and began posting the short video on the band's twitter account. It was a thing they did quite often, share with their fans very brief moments of intimacy with them. They had soon learned that choosing the moments of their lives they showed to their fans spared them some of the assaults of the gutter press.

"Where did you learn that?" Madison said while dusting her pants, frowning. Sam shrugged.

"In bars, like everyone." He answered. That earned him an exasperated sigh from his brother who Madison inquiringly looked at while retrieving her can placed on the ground.

"In the army." He said, motioning her to not ask further questions. Their beers emptied, they returned all to the bus for a night that promised to be short and not really relaxing. It had begun to rain softly and Dorothy adressed to Charlie a sign meaning "See? Told you so!" to which the bassist replied with an annoyed grunt. Dorothy took off her jacket and her shoes before climbing after Charlie on her bunk where they rolled up into a ball, one against the other and fell asleep almost instantly. Kevin was the only one of them to take the time to completely change to go to sleep. Dean, Sam and Madison contented themselves to remove their shoes and slip under the blanket of their bunks, the back of Madison resting against Sam's torso, who had wrapped a leg around her.

"When this alarm clock will ring I'll have the impression of having slept with Satan." She said, leaning back as comfortably as the narrow bunk allowed her to. The body heat of the drummer was already making her sweat.

"If you sleep." Sam said, wedging his forehead against the neck of the young woman.

"You see something else to do right now?"

"I can do a list." He sighed. "But we'll have to be very very quiet."

"I don't really want to be quiet."

Kevin, who was coming out of the small bathroom, stifled a chuckle and passed them to climb on his bunk. Dean drew the curtains of his own with a sharp movement.

"Shut up and keep your hands at decent places." He grumbled.

"Like Cas and you are always decents." Charlie scoffed over him in a sleepy voice.

"I don't mind when it's me and Cas." Dean snapped behind his curtain. Sam and Madison stiffled a laugh. The drummer ran his hands under the shirt of the young woman, leaving them just rest on her stomach, and kissed her neck.

"We'll be indecent later?" He whispered. She felt his eyelashes fluttering against her skin and nodded.

"Later. And not in public."

"You're such a pussy."

She smiled and closed her eyes. She had expected it to be weirder to sleep beside him, or even to not being able to sleep at all. Yet she could feel his breath on her neck and his hands on her belly and it didn't cause her any problems. To say that she felt secure would have been abusing the term, but contrary to what she had feared she didn't feel threatened or scared as she had dreaded after Kurt.

Because Sam wasn't Kurt.

When three hours later Dorothy's alarm clock rang, waking them all with a start, Madison nearly banged her head against Kevin's bunk by leaping up. Sam, still half asleep put a hand on her head and pulled her beside him again while the driver let herself fall out of Charlie's bunk while holding herself by the arms to dampen the sound of her feet touching the ground.

"Do you want some coffee?" Madison proposed in a low voice. In the dim light she only saw Dorothy shake her head.

"Not right now." She whispered before disappearing without turning on the light. The exchange had finally woken Sam who changed his position as gently as possible. Madison turned to face him, her arms trapped against the torso of the drummer whose movement had ridden the t-shirt up. She touched with her fingertips the piercing he had to the navel and the tattooed phoenix head that pointed above his hip. The engine actuated, drowing the noise of their discussion in a low voice out.

"You never told me about the piercings. Do they have a meaning too?" Madison asked, rattling her nails on the little sun that hung down the jewel. Sam smiled.

"No one else ever asked about it."

"Which explains why no one else is here right now." She replied. She had closed her eyes. Anyway it was too dark for her to really see him and they were too close for the angle to not make them squint. It was easier with eyes closed, as if in a dream that she'd have to try to remember the next day. "So?"

"It matched the look. The tattoos, the leather. That's what's expected from someone like me." He said. "It was also a way of throwing my difference to people's faces."

"You mean to your father's face."

She heard him nod. "Men don't wear jewelry or not many in our society, that's exactly why I did this one." He said by tightening Madison's fingers on the sun hung to his navel. "It is a girl piercing and I want people to know that I don't care. And this one..." He pulled the hand of the young woman under his shirt to his chest and to the ring he wore on a nipple, and got a little closer to her to finish his sentence in her ear. "This one is just for pleasure."

She unintentionally pressed the hand on the jewel, causing a jolt and a moan that sent a shiver throughout her body. She opened her eyes maybe half a second to kiss him because at that point she didn't really want to talk anymore. The engine noise would drown for a time the one of their kisses and they knew that they would have to content themselves with that. That would be enough for now.


	15. Chapter 15 : The Witch

**Notes: **This chapter is exeptionnaly rated M for mild-smut.

**Warnings:** **swearing, language, mention of past anxiety issues, insults, hate messages, kind of virtual bullying, mild-smut, semi-public sex, mention of past robbery, mention of past psychological trauma**

* * *

**Chapter 15: **The Witch

The Tulsa concert had been good without being spectacular. Kevin had allowed himself a walkabout at the exit and Dean had joined him, signing autographs on concert tickets, arms, legs, flags, t-shirts while smiling, holding the fans in his arms and making faces for photos. It was the kind of interaction that he loved as much as they made him uncomfortable. It was his job to be the center of attention and it didn't bother him. What bothered him however was to not being able to get out of it once he was out of the scene. For the fans, he remained the leader of Free Will above all and it was a skin which he couldn't get rid of by removing his jacket behind the scenes. It was nice to be adored, he couldn't deny it. But also oppressive. So many people that a single misstep could disappoint. So many expectations that could turn into resentment from one day to the next...

He smiled at the cameras, envying the ease with which Sam did that. Sam loved being watched, touched, admired, and it seemed that the more he behaved exactly as he wanted, the more it worked. Dean didn't have this ability to go with the flow. He knew perfectly how to play his part, knew exactly how to deal with the public, and that was probably what made and would continue to make the group's success. It wasn't always comfortable for all that.

They occupied the fans a long time, long enough for Dorothy and Charlie to slip out in the general indifference to go by taxi to see the grandmother of the driver a hundred kilometers from Tulsa. Charlie couldn't remember the name of the small town where Dorothy had grown up, but she had imagined it a lot by dint of hearing her companion talk about it. She had changed in a hurry after the show and her shirt stuck to her back by a rest sweat but it was better than her usual stage costumes to make the acquaintance of Dorothy's grandmother. She had tied her hair and slipped into a clean pants without holes and at her size, three items she was very surprised to gather in one clothe. She fell asleep on Dorothy's shoulder during the ride. The other didn't wake her up. Here and there a streetlight lit up the road and she was grateful to the driver to not try to make conversation. She had left the city by this road many years ago and had almost never returned.

Her reflection in the window was watching her thoughtfully. The features more marked, less smooth and less young than those she had seen reflected in the toilets of a rest area throughout the path that had taken her away from Oklahoma. Her grandmother had called it her own Path of Tears and afterwards, Dorothy couldn't really say that the words weren't well found. The car radio was softly broadcasting a song of Free Will, the coincidence made her smile.

"_Let me tell you the story of a witch_

_Trading her soul for power_

_But she realised only after_

_There's no way to reverse the switch_"

She had returned only once, at the death of her grandfather two years earlier and had left again almost immediately. Back then things didn't seem to have changed so much and she found herself smiling at her reflection by putting her arm around the shoulders of Charlie who curled up against her in a more comfortable position.

There was light in the kitchen when the taxi stopped in front of the house. Dorothy paid and got their bag out of the trunk while Charlie woke up and pulled herself out of the car. An old woman wrapped in a colorful shawl opened the door, her plump figure stood out against the light on the driveway and suddenly, Dorothy felt herself become a little girl again. She ran almost to her grandmother that she lifted off the ground, holding her in her arms for a kiss. The old woman let out a little laugh and hugged her in her turn.

"I missed you Ulisi!"

"Had to come back earlier girl." Said the old woman, parting from her granddaughter who was a head taller.

The taxi was drawing away and Charlie was advancing slowly down the aisle, carrying the big bag Dorothy and her shared for the night. She had her head down as if she was afraid that looking someone in the eye would ruin Dorothy's reunion with her grandmother. Dorothy looked at the old woman with a slight apprehension. She had never specified that Charlie was a girl. She was ready to defend herself by saying that it had completely gone out of her head, which was a lie. She had thought about it every day since the invitation of her grandmother. Suddenly a hairy, noisy thing went past her, sending her back against the frame of the entrance door to throw itself in the legs of the bassist with something between a low growl and a bark. Charlie dropped the bag and knelt on the gravel driveway to pet the dog.

"Hey you!" She said while the animal sat, tail beating the floor and was rubbing its head against her hand more than she was actually petting it. She identified the animal as a pure breed hybrid with very soft caramel hair and big floppy ears she dutifully scratched attracting a happy groan from the dog. "What's your name?"

"Peanut." The old woman answered with a huge smile.

"Peanut?" Charlie took the dog's head with both hands. "What kind of foolish things did you do to deserve that, poor big boy?"

Dorothy burst into a laugh while the dog was barking solemnly. "Give a paw Peanut!" The dog complied, much to delight of Charlie, and Dorothy approached to retrieve the bag and receive in exchange a great lick. "I'm the one who named him, and you're asked to not laugh!"

Charlie pretended to zip up her mouth and stood up, dusting herself before stretching her hand to Dorothy's grandmother.

"My name is Charlie." She said, smiling.

Several hours later, Charlie was still feeling a chill thinking back to what had happened. She believed in magic. You don't grow up reading the Lord of the Rings without believing in it at least a little bit. But she didn't really believe that such things happened, that the simple touch of a wrinkled hand could be enough to give the impression that someone was reading your soul. She had cast a panicked look to Dorothy when the old woman had taken her hand, looking at her thoughtfully. Gradually her face had litten up and she had uttered a word that the bassist didn't know before brushing her hair with a hand. Then she had smiled at Dorothy and had invited them to enter, Peanut on her heels.

At present they were both sitting on the single bed in what had been the room of the driver very long ago. Probably nothing had changed since her departure. The dusty shelves above the desk still loaded with adventure books, the cardboard in a corner of the room carefully labeled "Old Courses", the crimson and orange carpets that covered almost the entire wooden floor seemed to date back to a dream not really so distant. The patchwork quilt still had the same smell when Dorothy sat on the bed.

"Did you grow up here?" Charlie asked, sitting down beside her, beholding the walls yellowed by time and the window with white curtains open on the night. The other nodded.

"My parents lived two blocks from here. I had two bedrooms and when they quarreled I slept here."

Charlie looked at the wall above the bed where she could still discern traces of pins that had hung posters or pictures. "They must have quarreled often." She said. Dorothy nodded.

"What was the word of your grandmother earlier?"

"The Cherokee word for fox. She was checking your Totem. I never knew how she did it but she's never wrong."

Charlie smiled. "That's because of the hair."

Dorothy shook her head, crumpling the bedspread. "And intelligence, cunning, sense of family, speed and beauty. The fox is a good totem."

Charlie smiled again. "I'm flattered. What's your totem?"

"The peregrine falcon."

"That's a good thing?" Charlie asked. Dorothy shook her head.

"Not really. It's a partially migratory bird. According to the beliefs of my grandmother that makes me someone unreliable because I'll fly away at the approach of winter."

"Isn't it a sign of wisdom to protect yourself of winter?" Charlie asked, taking her hand.

"Not in her tribe. At each generation, the traditions of the Cherokee peter out a little more and I don't do anything to keep them alive. It was a big bone of contention between her and me."

"You don't want to carry this knowledge on?"

Dorothy shook her head again, her eyes fixed on the window that showed a black sky studded with stars. "My mother attaches great importance to it, my father is half Irish. I grew up hearing about wind spirits and leprechauns. One day you have to decide who you are, choose a side when you have two cultures."

"You chose the Irish side?"

"No. I chose to leave. I hit the road when I turned eighteen and I've never stopped driving since. My mother and my grandmother lived it as an inevitability. In the winter I did exactly what they had predicted, I fled. But I called it "going in search of myself"... I was eighteen and I was stupid."

Charlie had nothing to respond to that. She let her eyes drift to the neatly tidy nightstand. A lamp, a few old books for teenagers and a small round box with a flower design on the top that she took just to do something with her hands.

"What is this?" She asked, hearing some things move inside. She opened the box, finding a dozen small clear pink pills.

"Something against anxiety."

Charlie gave her a puzzled look, Dorothy was the most calm and composed person she knew. "I didn't just leave when I turned eighteen. Something happened."

"I'm listening." Charlie said while putting down the box. Dorothy shook her head.

"Not tonight. I don't want to talk about it after dark." She said, looking down at her pants and the hand that Charlie was holding in hers. She felt a kiss on her neck and smiled. She loved the way the bassist never asked more questions than what Dorothy wanted to answer, and the determination with which she was kissing her. Charlie kissed like she played at video games and it meant restart the game as long as she wouldn't win, it meant clench her hands on something and growl through clenched teeth. Dorothy lay her on the bed without stopping to kiss her, maneuvering to place herself above her, a knee on either side of the hips of her companion. Each knew the rhythm of the other, and the caresses they loved. Dorothy's nails that grazed Charlie's belly, like sparks all along her skin. Charlie's legs that wrapped around her waist as if to prevent the driver from moving.

While pulling on the stud of Charlie's trousers, Dorothy suddenly thought that she appreciated the habit of the bassist to wear shorts barely bigger than her underwear, because the miles of denim were a pain to remove and she ended up pulling so hard on the tissue that she made her partner slid from the bed. The bassist stifled a laugh, bent double on the carpet while Dorothy was getting rid of her own pants and was throwing the clothes at the other end of the room. There was nothing prettier in the world than Charlie's legs, pale, muscled and full of bruises because she never passed a day without trying something stupid that left marks. She climbed on the bed, pushing Dorothy toward the wall while undoing her shirt.

"You're sure we can?" She asked in the ear of the young woman, as if whispering would change anything to the noise they had already made.

"These walls have seen worse." Dorothy answered. And anyway, there was no way they were stopping now.

Over time, they had become very good at this game. And beyond the game there was something else that was only perceptible when they opened their eyes at the same time. Almost never. But sometimes, during a little moment before their eyelids flutter again, Charlie could see in the dark eyes of Dorothy something other than desire. And it made her want to kiss her harder, longer, until the breath lacks and even a few more seconds more. To press their bodies so hard that their skins weren't slipping one over the other, despite the sweat, despite the nails that dug into her thighs or shoulders and the teeth biting her lips.

"Not a sound." Dorothy whispered huskily in her ear. It was ridiculous is absolutely impossible and Charlie opened her mouth to point it out, but no sound came out. She looked at her partner. It was there, at the bottom of her eyes, the sparkle which she didn't name and which was enough to do things inside her.

The walls might had survived worse before, but next time they would do that, she promised herself that it would be somewhere where they wouldn't have to fear to be heard. Dorothy still had in mind the song heard earlier in the taxi.

"_Let me tell you about hell_

_Let me tell you about the hounds,_

_Howling, barking to tell_

_Now she can't escape her own spell_

_Her soul is lost and cannot be found._"

##

Sam found Madison in the last place he looked for her after the concert at Tulsa. She had taken refuge in the roadies' tourbus, which, unlike the group's was equipped with an upper deck with rows of seats high enough to completely hide her. He sat down next to her and she curled up against the glass without giving him a look.

"Something's wrong?"

"Charlie put the video of yesterday on Twitter."

Sam took a few seconds to understand what she was talking about.

"So what?"

Madison turned a little in her seat, knees jammed against the backrest in front of her, her phone in hand.

"I quote: **Who's that slut, what is she doing there?**". With her thumb, she was slowly going back up the comments thread while reading aloud. "**Hands off, bitch, they're ours**." Sam stifled a giggle which earned him an annoyed glance. "**I hope this bitch will**..." Madison paused to swallow the lump she had in the throat. "..**catch cancer and die**."

Sam put his hand on the phone to cover the screen.

"You're beating yourself up for nothing." He said, withdrawing the device to turn it off before returning it to her. "That's just a band of kids jealous because they don't have what you have."

"It's terrifying anyway. Even more to the idea that it may actually be kids who write this. Do they have no awareness of the harm it can do?" Her hands were shaking and there were sobs in her voice. Sam shook his head.

"None whatsoever. Most people don't see us as human beings Mads. Celebrities are made to be fantasized on, not having a life or emotions. Not in the public mind anyway. For them it's like you gave emotions to a painting or a cartoon character."

"But I'm not a celebrity." She said, looking down at the phone off in her hands. "How do you stand that?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't take account of it. These people don't know me, their opinion doesn't matter. The only thing that interests me is when I'm told what I do counts for someone. When a kid starts the drums or to write and he tells me it's thanks to me... it's the only thing that matters to me." He raised a little his sleeve and turned on the seat to show her his arm where were spread out a multitude of small blue and purple flowers between the sunflowers on his shoulder and the Magnolia on his forearm. "One for each person who told me I was important."

She ran her hand on the tattoos, just gently enoug for the caress to make him shiver. She wanted to kiss him, right there, on the flowers that represented a little of the love people had for him and which, turned against her resulted in anonymous hate messages. She did and the next moment he had attracted her against him, almost rolled into a ball in his arms, laughing and trying to stay in contact with the tattoo on his arm. But this only lasted a moment, and she soon scowled.

"As if that wasn't hard enough to accept to be with you, I must also deal with that."

"If you were expecting everything to be sunshine and unicorns then you got the wrong guy." He said coldly.

"I didn't say that!" She mumbled, extricating herself from his arms to settle more comfortably astride on his knees, her back pressed against the back of the seat behind her. "But I didn't expect to have to endure your fans in addition to you."

He smiled, hands on the thighs of the young woman. "I should have warned you that I'm not an easy boy."

"Oh? I had understood the opposite." She said, leaning towards him to kiss him. "I remind you that you sleep with your fans."

"There's only one here. You should consider yourself fortunate."

"I'm not one of your fans."

"Liar."

She laughed and began to remove his jacket as he passed his hands under her t-shirt to remove it. They were still smiling while kissing, each undoing the button of the other's jeans and passing their hands underneath with sighs of pleasure.

"There're people down there." She said, slipping against him, one hand in Sam's hair, the other on his length, her lips on his neck where the pulse beat faster and harder under her tongue.

"Then you'll have to be very silent." He replied, slowly sliding his fingers in her. She stifled a chuckle in his shoulder and then a moan when he began to move, breath shorter as she made her hand coming and going on his member. He felt Madison's lips quit his neck, down along his collarbone to the piercing on his chest that she began to nip and this time he was the one who let out a loud sigh. He could feel her smile against his chest even he only saw her hair and replied by pressing harder his hand on her crotch. He wanted to smile, laugh and moan all at once, of pleasure, of happiness and of a feeling he wouldn't have been able to express in words but had everything to do with the hum of blood in his ears, the sound of their breathing, the rustle of their skins against the velvet seat, the beating of his heart he felt pulsing through his body. He was biting his lips to not make noise and Madison was stifling her moans against his skin, only their hands were moving, as their chests covered in sweat that slid one over the other until the pleasure prevails and leaves them breathless and happy in the arms of each other at the edge of a burst of laughter a bit incongruous.

Madison eventually forced herself to move, wiped her hands on her jeans, whose color had probably been invented to conceal the suspicious stains. She could have contorted herself to get her shirt rolled in a ball on the ground under Sam's boots, but it was probably already ruined. She just put herself in her seat against the glass covered with mist, letting Sam readjust himself with a groan.

"I've never been so impatient to get back to a room with a bed." He said, siting himself against her to kiss her, pinning her against the cold glass. She didn't notice, wrapped her bare arms around his shoulders and gave in to the kiss, slowly, languidly as if the moment of heat they had allowed themself to had to be accompanied by a piece of tenderness.

Even in the hideous light of the bus, even disheveled, sweaty, cheeks reddened by the pleasure, he found her beautiful. Even if she had red eyes from crying earlier and dark circles to the middle of her cheeks. He kissed her again because he didn't intend to tell her. Not now anyway. It would have seemed silly and dwelled. They settled more comfortably, Sam's jacket as a pillow for Madison. She still had her legs wrapped around his hips and he lay almost on her, his head on her chest, listening her heart returning to a normal rhythm as she ran her hand through his hair absent-mindedly.

They were beginning to fall asleep when they heard the heavy tread of Bobby climbing the stairs and his grumpy voice calling Madison. They stood up fast, not fast enough to get totally dressed before he sees them.

"Really?" He growled, shrugging his eyebrows at Sam who was pulling his shirt on with an indifferent shrug. The manager sighed and leaves them alone with a gesture that clearly said what he thought of their behavior. Sam and Madison looked at each other half a second, both disheveled to have put their clothes on in a hurry and laughed.

##

"_She feels her bones ignite,_

_As she goes down on the pit,_

_The devil will do as he sees fit_

_No sun will ever soothe her sight._"

It was a lovely day which had started with a shower together. Charlie had opened the door of the kitchen to Peanut who was yelping softly as not to disturb its owner but hurled itself outside soon as it could. Dorothy watched her companion follow the dog outside, barefoot and still wearing the flannel trousers decorated with small Wonder Woman logos in which she had slept. There were people (Sam at the top) who had probably tried to make her change her clothing habits, they had all obviously failed which made Dorothy smile while the smell of coffee filled the kitchen. Her grandmother came in slowly, wrapped in a blue bathrobe and pressed it against her.

"It's good to have you here." The old woman said, sitting.

"I'm leaving in the afternoon. We must take the road to LA tonight."

Outside Peanut had begun to bark when Charlie threw a stick he dutifully brought back each time for a caress more.

"She's ravishing." The old woman said, chin in hand, looking at the bassist running after the dog through the window. She took the cup of coffee Dorothy was holding out to her and waited for her grand-daughter to sit to ask her: "Do you like girls? Is that's why you left us?"

Dorothy shook her head. "No, Ulisi. No to both questions. I don't like girls. I like this girl, this isn't a gender issue it's... a company issue."

The elder nodded. "There are people whose life we can share." She said thoughtfully. "I guess the gender shouldn't matter." She was looking at Charlie racing with the old dog in the garden.

"And that's not why I left you, you know that Ulisi."

"Why then? You left saying that you wanted to know who you were... Do you know now?"

Dorothy looked back at Charlie and the dog and smiled. "I probably always knew, but I think she's making me realize it. And she isn't even aware of that."

Her grandmother smiled. "She's a good company then."

And the subject was closed.

Later, she found Charlie, dressed this time, standing in front of the window of her teenage bedroom in front of which hung such a collection of dream catchers that they formed a curtain of cobwebs and feathers almost blocking the view on the outside.

"It's pretty." She said, touching one of the items with her finger.

"I made one every Sunday for something like a year." Dorothy responded while starting to collect their belongings in their common bag.

"Why?"

The woman stopped, pants in hand, wondering if this was the right time? If she wanted to talk about this? In that instant, she understood perfectly why Sam talked so little about his past. The past, most of the time, it was better to leave it in its place.

Charlie didn't even need to know. It was an insignificant event of which Dorothy began to talk about in spite of herself. Insignificant to everyone except to her. And yet, at this precise moment of their relationship it was something she wanted to share with the bassist. She sat on the bed and Charlie leaned against the desk to listen.

"The Dream Catchers… they're supposed to catch nightmares and dissolve them in the day. At the time, make some calmed me. Because sometimes life doesn't let you get any respite, it harass you every day and every day you have to find the strength to get up. And at the time, it was difficult for me."

"What happened?" Charlie asked softly, coming to sit beside her on the bed.

Dorothy had a habit of speaking in a plain, concise way, and not to beat about the bush and Charlie slipped her hand into hers as if to encourage her to say whatever came into her head.

"Everyone has a place of refuge to escape the world. When things get too hard, you can survive anything as long as you have that place to yourself. It can be anything. I know that for Castiel it is to listen to Dean singing, Sam is beating on his drums. I still haven't found what's yours, Red, but for me, it was this room. I didn't fit very well back at the time. I'm even not sure to fit even now, but teenager, it was as if this room was the only place where nothing bad could happen to me. Neither my parents' quarrels nor the disapproval of my grandparents. I sat at that desk for hours, I did my homework, I daydreamed about when I wouldn't be the ugly duckling anymore..."

Charlie chuckled. "It's hard to picture you in the shoes of the ugly duckling."

Dorothy smiled and pressed her fingers. "But I was. And here, it was the only place where I felt safe."

"What happened?"

"Someone robbed us. I was just starting high school and it was even more difficult than usual. I came home one night and found the room devastated, everything was torn or broken." She closed her eyes for a second to dispel the vision of the disaster and shook her head. "It was nothing. No one was injured, my grandparents weren't even there, a few things were missing but nothing serious. And yet it was as if I didn't have anymore that refuge I needed. As if I had been deprived of my secret place. I know it's stupid, but I was young..."

"Not stupide." Charlie interrupted her. "I think I understand. If you don't feel safe in your own refuge, then... What do you have left? It must be a bit as if you had been personally attacked."

"That's pretty much it. I scared myself, thinking that it could start all over again at any time, I didn't feel safe anywhere anymore. I thought it would subside with time, but I got my degree and it still hadn't passed. The next day I packed my bags and I left... three years to feel bad here, I could just as well feel bad anywhere else. Things had gotten worse in the family. My grandmother wanted me to learn the rituals of her ancestors, the Cherokee language, but I never really identified myself within. I had almost become a stranger to them, so I left to find out exactly who I was. I became exactly what they had predicted. Winter came and the peregrine falcon fled. I accumulated jobs, driving trucks across America, I traveled around, then I signed the contract for the tour of Free Will and you know the rest."

Charlie said nothing for a moment and then: "Did you find a new refuge?"

Dorothy smiled, turning to her. "Not yet but... I think that over time... you could become my refuge. If you want to."

Charlie smiled in her turn.

"It's been a year you know."

Dorothy nodded. "C'était une bonne année."

Charlie leaned down to kiss her softly. Her hands stroked the hair of the conductor, clench them when they deepened the kiss.

"I would be more than honored to be your secret refuge."

Dorothy smiled before kissing her again, saying to herself that there was probably some truth in the saying 'home is where the heart is'. She was making a home in the earth of a fox, and as strange as it seemed to her who was a migratory bird, it was still a very good thing.

"_Let me tell you about a girl,_

_Hell broke her, made her a demon inside,_

_But when the pain left her_

_She remembered what it's like to be human._"


	16. Chapter 16 : Shelter

**Warnings: **swearing, language, homophobic language, mention and references to character deaths

* * *

**Chapitre 16: **Shelter

It was the last show, the one that wasn't always special, but should always be. Castiel knew the signs of a great show for having already seen them in some rare occasions. The way Charlie clenched her hair in her hands, the dimples of Sam and the number of sticks that he had already lost behind the scenes (one day one would have to hire someone to pick them up after him. One day.).

Castiel could above all see it in Dean's eyes, in his smile and the door he had left ajar in order to hear the noise of the crowd that was gathering in the hall while they were both changing.

They had arrived almost late and had been caught in the middle of the hallway by Bobby enjoining Dean to get changed and rewarding him in passing with a tap on the back of the head that absolutely not dented the singer's exitement. They had thrown their bags on the floor and exchanged a last kiss before undressing quickly, looking at both of them strip clothe by clothe of a facet of their lives. Castiel's sweatshirt fell down, taking with it the last hope to see him well coiffed and Dean had to resist the urge to run his hand in his black hair to accentuate the disheveled effect. The concert would take care of it. He got rid of his too worn jeans to put on leather pants. The cold clothing made him briefly grit his teeth and Castiel let out an appreciative click of the tongue to which he replied with a wink while the young man pulled on the jeans of the singer. They were too big for him, and fell on his hips suggestively. Dean looked away before needing to delay the concert of a good half hour and caught a white shirt in his bag before putting on a leather jacket that he wouldn't keep more than three songs.

Castiel was still barefoot when Sam entered without knocking and all the drummer saw at first sight was the back of the accountant, kneeling by the couch, busy outlining of black the eyes of his lover.

"We're shooting a porn here?" He joked.

"That could come." Castiel said deadpan with a shrug to readjust his too big tank top without shaking his hand. He bit his lip when Dean opened his eyes smiling. Each time he did this, he wondered what good he could have done to deserve this vision?

Charlie and Kevin arrived at full throttle, pursuing each other in the corridors, and stumbled over one another when the bassist bumped against Sam still on the doorstep.

Castiel knew the signs and with Charlie they resulted in a certain inability to speak otherwise than with her hands as if the excitation cut off her voice. She authoritatively handed to Sam the big box in which they kept their jewelry scene and ordered him to get ready.

"But I'm ready!" He protested, nevertheless letting her strap studded wristbands on his wrists. He did the same for her and motioned for Kevin to change his piercings. "More conspicuous Kev. Tonight is a big night!"

Castiel sat on the edge of the sofa, Dean's arm around the waist to observe them just a few moments before joining the pit. He leaned to kiss the singer one last time singer and left on a sign of encouragement to the attention of his friends. He took advantage of the very relative calm of the backstage to call Dorothy and recommend her to come and attend the concert with Madison.

"It'll be worth it." He promised, showing his badge to the security guard who let him pass between the barriers separating him from the pit. People looked at him curiously, talked on his way.

Castiel the accountant would have lowered his head and pretended to not see anything. But the Castiel he was at that moment smiled and walked down the barriers, settling at the third or fourth row of spectators between a handmade flag with the emblem of the group and a few words of "_Hellhound_" and a group of girls speaking in a language he didn't know. He had his camera around his neck and his phone buzzed deep in the pocket of the too big jeans he was wearing.

He hadn't received any message from Brooklyn for so long that he had a moment of incomprehension when seeing her ID on the screen.

**"Looks like it'll be a great show."**

So she was in the hall. By reflex, Castiel looked around for her but he knew he had almost no chance of finding her in the crowd. But he smiled anyway while Madison and Dorothy joined him and quickly answered.

**"Especially for you."**

He promised himself to check in with her after the concert, but he was already smiling knowing the involuntary surprise Dean reserved for the girl. He had read the scrawled lyrics in the notebook and knew Dean was waiting for a special occasion to sing that song. A particular audience receptive enough to offer him this gift. He didn't even need to wait for Dean's response to the message he immediately sent him, he knew exactly with which song he would start the acoustic session that night, and to who he would dedicate it.

Castiel knew the signs of a very good show, with him it meant an incandescent excitement, like a million bubbles in his chest that made him bounce up and down and smile big enough to worry Dorothy.

The lights went out. It was hot, the crowd screamed. Castiel was feeling at home.

Sam had thrown himself on stage, instinctively finding his place on his seat, the sticks already in hand, his arms finding on their own the way to the drum kit of which he barely discerned the shape in the darkness. The first stroke on the snare, the beat all in offbeat of the opening sequence tuned directly with the beat of his heart. By the time Kevin and Charlie were on stage, he was already sweaty, his white tank top stuck to his back, his ears ringing despite the protections... He caught the eye of the bassist at the moment when Dean took the stage, and he gave her a smile while his brother placed himself in the center of the stage, waving to the crowd, clutching his microphone.

Everything was perfect.

Kevin saw the crowd moving to the rhythm of the music that squizzed his stomach and made him smile, concentrating hard on his melodic line. He loved watching people, always amazed that they came, that music could bring this feeling to them. The classical music he had studied his entire youth produced more profound effects, quieter, like an inner peace that wasn't to share. Rock required to share. It was as if the music itself ordered the audience to sing louder than Dean, to beat time faster than Sam, to swing to the rhythm of the bass and to close their eyes along the bars of the strings he rubbed.

The heat of the crowd was overwhelming, almost terrifying, people were pressing themselves against Dorothy, pushing her, walking on her feet, screaming. Nobody could like that. She was about to retreat when Castiel's hand sought hers, it was already sweaty and the group was only beginning the second track. There was too much noise for her to hear what he was saying and he just covered her eyes with his free hand. "Just go with the flow." He shouted in her ear.

Was this his way of doing? Just go with the crowd? Obviously yes. It was a strange feeling to be thus buffeted by strangers on a vibrating floor, like in those dreams where you fall and of which you wake up screaming. But that left more room for music, more room for the lyrics and the emotion.

Castiel knew the signs of an incredible concert and was every time delighted to participate in. Later in the night, when the sound had begun to make his ears buzz, when he seemed to be more drunk with music and life than he had been for a long time, he began to photograph the group. The photos would be for the most blurry or poorly framed, but one or two of them would be perfect, an accurate representation of the punctual happiness Free Will could bring to their fans. He had a whole file of it in his computer that Dean sometimes watched in days of discouragement.

He also took a picture of the profiles of Dothy and Madison singing along a song in chorus, each with the same expression of joyful abandonment on the face. He'd probably print it and frame it.

When Sam finally stopped beating on the cymbals and the calm slowly returned in the pit and on stage, Castiel quickly corrected the camera settings to adjust them to the calm of the acoustic session which was to come. There would be videos of the song that Dean, now alone on stage was going to burst. Castiel, him, wanted to photograph his lips on the edge of the microphone and the brightness of his piercings in the pink and violet light. He wanted to photograph the curvature of the tattooed rose on his wrist flexed around the neck of the guitar, and his fingers clutching the strings. More than all the rest, those little things gave reality to the moment of amazed wavering that Castiel would try to remember later without being able to find the exact sensation.

A picture, a second one, then a larger shot of the scene, then a final of Kevin bent over his cello and Castiel dropped the camera against his stomach to listen to the song. He hoped that the videos he would find later on the internet would start early enough to hear Dean lean over his microphone and whisper "This one is for Brooklyn."

"_We've been through much you and I,_

_I believed in you like you believed in me too_

_You couldn't make it, I don't know why._

_Why wasn't I able to save you?_"

##

Castiel's cooking had something miraculous. First because it was atrocious. Second because it had brought him to the ripe age of twenty six years old which, in Dean's opinion, fell within daily divine intervention. If he avoided thinking about Castiel's diet when he was too far away to remedy the situation, he had quickly got used to proclaim the kitchen of the young man as his own territory when he was in town, and tonight was no exception to the rule. He had disappeared after signing autographs and taking pictures with fans and had taken byroads to shake off anyone who could possibly follow him to the accountant's apartment.

He found Castiel in the kitchen in the process of carefully cutting carrots in slices of all exactly the same thickness. The concepts of cooking time and seasoning remained unknown to him, but his attention to detail and his concern for a job well done made him a particularly effective commis chef for lack of being speed.

They couldn't really consider their lives as routine, Dean moved way too much for it. But they had their little rituals, including the first dinner after the last concert. They cooked in silence, one slicing thinly the food, the other baking them bit by bit until a soft simmered dish smell invades the small white and blue apartment of Castiel.

The feeling of coming home and not having to move was still strange after so much time spent on roads. Dean had a little feeling of floating in an exhausted stupor since the day before.

Knowing that he wouldn't have to leave a few hours later hadn't decreased their ardor, quite the opposite. They had nearly been late for the concert and had been greeted by conniving glances to which they hadn't paid attention. Even while cooking they found a way to gently brush each other, knowing that they wouldn't sleep much that night either. A jazz tune filled the apartment, barely drowning out the noise of the knife on cutting board. It was the quietest atmosphere in which Dean had been for months despite his ringing ears from the concert that had just ended and the residual clenching of his fingers. He caught himself smiling at his sauce reducing.

"You know." He said thoughtfully. "It'd be easier if everyone knew for us. I wouldn't have to hide to come and cook for you."

He felt Castiel tense next to him just before responding "No." with the same firm tone he would have used to decline a threesome with Hitler's corpse. He had laid his knife and was looking at the leek he'd been cutting as if it had just personally affronted him. Dean knew it was only to not turn this look on him. It was a discussion, or rather an argument they had had many times already and he blamed himself for having broached the subject. He honestly didn't know what had got into him, he hadn't had the conscious intention to do it. It was just the calm atmosphere, the prospect of being settled down for some time that had led him to that thought he had expressed aloud. And now Castiel was throwing a death stare at a vegetable, teeth clenched to not say anything he would regret later. Dean turned off the heat under the pan.

"Sorry." He said. "I just thought..."

"We had this conversation before." Castiel cut him off.

"I know. And I'm still not satisfied with how it turns every time."

"Then why do you always bring it back up?" The young man lost his temper. "There is no question of revealing our relationship! It's too dangerous!"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Don't be stupid. We won't be shot in the public square!"

"Almost." Castiel grumbled, pointing his knife at Dean. He put it down on as soon as he realized it and crossed his arms, leaning against the work plan, the leek abandoned for now. "It already cost you your career once and your father into the bargain. There is no question for us to jeopardize the future of Free Will just because you'd find it comfortable to not have to hide!"

"It wouldn't fucking jeopardize anything!" Dean also lost his temper. "It won't change anything to my music!"

Castiel snorted. "But darling, if it was the music that mattered in this business, we would know."

Dean noticeably turned pale. "And what does that mean exactly?" He hissed. He knew he shouldn't have been so angry, after all, he knew perfectly the position of the young man on the subject. But Castiel had deliberately pressed right where it hurt.

"It's not the music that sells your discs Dean. If you still believe that you bury your head in the sand. How do you think your fans will react when they discover that fantasize about you is useless since you're no longer single? How do you think everyone will react by learning that on top of that you sleep with a guy?"

"I don't fucking care!" Dean yelled. "I quit the army because I refused to lie and hide, and my father despises me for it! And now you ask me to do the same! For years Cas! You think if I wanted to live a lie I'd have chosen this life?"

Castiel pursed his lips hard and shook his head.

"Not now!" He said a little more quietly. "Not now that your record company starts to trust you. It's too risky Dean. There is too much at stake, your career, your income. Did you think about what's going to happen if you reveal this, if it causes a scandal and the record company drops you? Did you think about Sam Charlie and Kevin?"

"Of course I think about them. I only think about them. I've always thought about them otherwise I wouldn't have signed that damn contract. You think it's fun for me to be Crowley's bitch? You think I like that, seeing my music liquidized so I can sell it?"

Castiel shook his head, looking sheepish.

"It's not worth ruining it all just to avoid having to hide. We're fine like that, right?"

"No." Dean ran his hands on his face, shaking with anger or disappointment he wasn't sure which. "No I'm not fine Cas. I was fine before you. Before you come and make me want things for myself. When I only had Sam's welfare in mind everything was easier. And now I want things for myself. I want... I want to hold you against me in the street, I want us to live together, I want everyone to know what you mean to me and people to stop to present girls to me. It's unfair to hide like that when I'm happy and I want everyone to know." His wrath had subsided with his words and now he wanted to cry. He expected Castiel to come and touche him but he didn't.

"I refuse." The young man said. "You know how much I love you. But this, this is out of question. I won't let you take that risk, not before you're all well settled in the milieu."

Dean sneered. "Why the only time you get reasonable has to be to deny me the only thing close to my heart?"

Castiel didn't answer until Dean sigh and storm out of the kitchen.

"Where are you going?" The accountant shouted in his back. Only the slamming of the front door answered him.

He finished cutting the leek, as if it was important, and reserved the preparation in the refrigerator. They had already gotten the plates out and he suddenly had a violent desire to break one. Or both, or even all those he had. He had already done that, it would only earn him a momentary satisfaction without solving the problem. He stacked one upon the other to store them.

Fuck it.

He violently thrown them to the ground where they exploded with a satisfactory noise of broken porcelain. The white pieces contrasted sharply with the blue tiles. He didn't feel better.

He went to bed, appetite ruined by the argument. He was sure that Dean wouldn't return for the night and that himself wouldn't get to sleep. Yet it was the sound of the singer's keys in the lock that woke him several hours later, triggering a headache that would only worsen over hours. He winced when he heard the screeching door of the closet in the entrance where Dean was putting away his jacket, and the sound of his shoes falling to the ground when he removed them. The corridor light came through the ajar door and he sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes to see Dean hesitantly stepping in the room.

"May I?" He asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Castiel nodded and slightly pushed the corner of the blanket away from the usual place of his lover to show him his permission. Dean sighed in relief and slid into the bed next to him, his arms automatically wrapped around the torso of Castiel who sighed in turn. He felt like he hadn't breathed since he had left. Despite the frequency of their disputes, they both hated them.

"I'm sorry." Castiel whispered, placing his forehead against Dean's. The other nodded slowly without replying. "I promise we'll do it. When things have changed, we will."

"Don't make promises that you won't have to keep, they have no value." Dean grumbled. Castiel slightly pulled his hair by way of interrogation. "We'll be dead or separated before times change. So we'll stay like that and stop arguing on the subject. It's not important."

A his tone, Castiel knew that yes, it was important, but Dean would never mention the issue again unless he was forced to. Like his father, like the army, like all the things he kept for himself by claiming that it didn't bother him. It wasn't the goal, but Castiel felt guilty.

"I'm sorry."

Dean laid a light kiss on his mouth and then on his forehead, wrapped his arms tighter around him.

"Don't be, now sleep."

"_If angels are supposed to be guardians,_

_Ask them to forgive me, for I couldn't shelter you,_

_Tell them I wish circumstances were different,_

_And I'm sorry for what you've been through_"

##

"_You didn't think you deserved to be saved,_

_What we did, what we became,_

_I'm afraid it might kill me too,_

_I lost everything for nothing_

_I hope paradise has a place for me and you._"

Once the hall empty and the lights dimmed, Sam began to feel cold because of the sweat that stuck his tank top to the skin. He knew that despite the Californian climate, the night was too far advanced for him to get out arms bare without diying of cold. He had let the others slip away to enjoy the tiny bathroom of their dressing room and let the warm water erase some of the throbbing pain in his shoulders and arms. It had been an absolutely wonderful concert and as always, he knew he would wake up with aches that would make him wince. He could still feel the energy that was bubbling under his skin, the excitement that still surrounded his belly and he hummed to himself in the shower, still swaying from one foot to the other while getting dressed again, a silly smile on the lips. Tomorrow he would feel empty, tired and lost. Months on the roads and the road had become like a bad habit that would be difficult to get rid of. They would all have two quiet days before their appointment with Crowley to establish what would follow. In the entertainment business, they had learned it harshly enough, vacation didn't exist. You had to constantly feed the public, give them something, occupy the media scene to not be forgotten, to continue to yield enough money to the record company so that the said compagny supports them during the time it would take to release a new album.

Sam really loved his life, but that aspect, he hated it. It didn't make much difference with what he had fled by going to Stanford. He always had someone on the back to tell him what to do, what not to do and if required, what to think. But he decided to put those worries off until later. For now he wanted to enjoy the joy bubbling in him, ideally by getting hold of Madison and a drink or two. His jacket in hand he went back to the hall where the roadies finished cleaning the stage for the last time. There were already cases of beer in the middle of the deserted pit and Kevin was bringing a big tray of sandwiches he placed in balance on one of the crates.

Madison was labelling a part of what would get to the recording studio placed at their disposal to store, among others, Sam's drums in it. She hadn't seen him, muttering to herself a code that would have eluded to anyone not working with them by checking items on a list that was in her hand. Sam sat next to Kevin and reached for a sandwich but remained suspended on the move, realizing he had a silly smile on his lips but not because of the excitement of the concert anymore. He was smiling precisely because it had just left him, leaving him pleasantly exhausted and happy. And it had happened by looking at Madison crumple her now useless list and wince when drawing herself up from the crouched position in which she was.

Sam felt calm, which rarely happened, and it was because of a girl he had known for two months.

Kevin nudged him. "You take that thing or you keep drooling?"

He took the sandwich but put it down on his knee without biting into it while the roadies were shouting out to each others across the room to gather around them.

"We lost a few on the way?" Bobby asked, sitting on a crate near Sam with a grunt.

Kevin nodded. "Dean is at Castiel's and I think I don't want to know where Charlie and Dorothy are."

"Those two made up?" The old manager asked, biting into a sandwich, holding the other hand to be given a beer. Sam handed him a can, nodding.

"Apparently."

They were all too tired for the after party to linger. An hour and three beers later, Sam and Madison were leaving the hall by the stage door, she slightly drunker than him, the arms of the drummer passed around her shoulders. They were about to skirt the building when someone came out of the shadows and Sam felt instantly sober while Madison, who was laughing at something he had said, paused suddenly.

"Good evening Sammy."

She felt the arm around her shoulders tense. By reflex she tightened the arm she had passed around the waist of Sam as she stared at the man who had just talked. He looked tired, was one full head taller than her (like most of the rest of the world), his beard was carefully maintained, his hair graying at the temples. She knew, without asking that she was standing in front of John Winchester.

"Dad." Sam greeted him.

They stared stonily at each other for a short time before John spoke again.

"Your brother's not here?"

Sam shook his head. "He left early. And if he were here he wouldn't want to see you. Me neither by the way."

"You don't have to directly start the fight."

"I don't have to be friendly, either." Sam mumbled. John frowned before turning to Madison, giving her an inquiring look.

"Good evening." She said. Greeting him seemed the best thing to do. She held out her free hand to the man who shook it. "My name is Madison."

"John Winchester." He looked at his son. "Glad to see that at least one of you has a normal relationship."

Sam frowned. "Dean has a normal relationship. He and Castiel are much more... a couple than us." He said, squeezing Madison's shoulder.

"Not a normal couple." John retorted. "I haven't raised my son to be..." He paused as if the word hurt him as much to say as it would hurt to hear it.

"Gay?" am offered with a wicked smile. "Of course not, because it never occured to you that your sons may have a free will and possibly different opinions from yours. It didn't come to your mind when I left for Stanford and you still hadn't understood when Dean returned from..."

"DON'T SPEAK OF THAT!" John lost his temper. "He could have been... You could have been men. But you preferred to avoid your responsibilities and Dean..."

"Dean did what you wanted." Sam said quietly. "He walked in your footsteps, he did exactly what you asked him and everything you taught him. If you dislike the result you can only blame yourself. You shouldn't have taught us to be honest, nor make us believe that there is only one way and one truth. Now your sons don't want to talk to you anymore and one of them rejected you so much that he became everything you loathe. Instead of training us to be mini you, you should have taught us to be ourselves. That's what real fathers do."

He was holding Madison so tight she could barely breathe and John had lowered his head, fists clenched at his sides.

"Try to understand Sam, it's hard to see his children take the wrong path!"

"What wrong path dad? I wanted to be a lawyer. Dean wanted to be you. And what are our crimes? Me to refuse to make war? And Dean to have been banned to do it because he didn't like the right people? Where did we screw up more than you dad? We didn't hurt anyone while you..."

His voice was stuck in his throat and he eventually loosened his grip on Madison shoulders, gently pushing her towards the corner of the building and turning his back on his father.

"Sam!"

His call went unanswered. He didn't follow them.

When jumping into a taxi a few minutes later they silently questionned each other on the address to give.

"If I go home, can you promise to not drink through doing something stupid?" Madison asked in hushed tones as he settled next to her. He shook his head with a sigh. She slipped back an arm around his waist and didn't let go during all the ride to the apartment of the Winchester, even after he had stopped trembling with rage. She wasn't immediately shocked by the lack of decoration. The place was clean even though it still smelled stale after remaining unoccupied for months. A very thin layer of dust covered just about everything except the coffee table where Sam certainly had eaten dinner the day before upon returning from the tour. Madison didn't know where he had found the time to fill the fridge, hers was still completely empty and she had only taken the time to plug it back that very morning after having been happily reunited with her own bed. He handed her an open beer that she began to sip while going around the kitchen and living room. Identifiaction tags were lying in a trinket bowl on the dresser and she grabbed them mechanically, brushing her thumb on one of them to dust it.

"Dean was in the army?" She asked, surprised, to Sam. He nodded. "Why did he stop?"

Sam let out a shrill laugh. "He didn't. He was dismissed during my first year at Stanford."

"Why?"

She immediately realized the idiocy of her question. Sam sighed and put his beer on the dresser before perching on it as if it was a wooden seat.

"Our father was a marines. You saw him he kept some characteristics. Among other things, he thinks the soldiers are all heroes, that they contribute to the safety of the American people, that they save lives every day."

"He's not entirely wrong."

"In a way." The young man agreed. "I've never really liked the idea of having to shoot someone who hasn't done anything to me just because I was given the order. I wanted to be a lawyer to change and move things up a bit but for my father lawyers and judges are only useless wankers living at taxpayer expense. It didn't go very well when I left home. At this time, Dean had already done two years in the Marines. He was good, really good, about to become officer. I still don't know if he did it to get the approval of our father or if he really thought he'd find meaning to his life into it... Anyway, I don't know the details, but it eventually was known that he didn't like girls. I guess someone reported him because in general soldiers prefer to ignore this stuff. He was fired and it went awfully bad when he returned home."

"How much time was it before the fire?" Madison asked, putting down the tags in their bowl.

"A few months. Dad must have gone too far and Dean left. The rest was a series of muddles... I know he accepted my idea of doing music just to keep me busy after the death of Jess. He always said it was better for me to hit on drums rather than on people. I wonder to what extent he might have thrown himself into it just to find anything to not think of what he could have been." He reached out to take the tags and examine them before putting them down. "I think he will always blame himself for not having been the son that dad wanted. Not having been a palliative for my insubordination."

Madison smiled. "Insubordination?"

Sam nodded. "That's what my father said."

"Sounds like you."

A comfortable silence settled while they finished their beers and Sam realized he was calm again, almost serene. The happiness and excitement of the concert were gone, but the presence of Madison was significantly alleviating the unpleasant sensation left by the visit of his father. He took out his MP3 player from the pocket of his jeans to go plug it into the speaker at the other end of the living room while Madison was throwing their empty bottles.

"You actually have a playlist called "Sex"?" She mocked, watching him scrolling through the songs in search of one that would suit them.

"I have a playlist for everything." He answered. He was squatting in front of the lower cabinet on which were posed the speakers and for once, Madison was tall enough to be able to put her chin on his shoulder if she sat up on her knees.

"I almost don't know any of these songs." Dit elle.

"That's the idea. You do not want hyper-known songs in a playlist for sex. First, it distracts while you just want set the mood. Then, if sex is bad, you don't want it to ruin your favorite song. What would that do to you if you were listening to "_You Give Love A Bad Name_" while you're bored in bed?"

Madison burst into a laugh. "I guess I would never hear it again without wincing."

"Exactly."

"Hey I like this one!" She said, pointing to a title that Sam had long forgotten it was part of this playlist. He pressed the button and the music surrounded them almost instantly.

"So we'll try not to ruin it." He said just before turning his head toward her to kiss her on the cheek. Her skin was soft and her eyelashes tickled him as he felt her fingers hold onto his hair. It was strange but not difficult to smile, kissing her, taking her in his arms and guiding her to the bed. It was natural and soothing.

"_You can never go back_

_To the things that once were_

_But there's always a place_

_Where you can go seek shelter_"

Sam had often heard that after the death of their mother, Dean carried his little brother in his bed at night and would lie near him, his forehead against the baby's cheek, his arms gingerly wrapped around him. He had gotten over it fast enough, probably more for fear of choking him than because he really had gotten over. Then Sam had grown up and everyone had remained in his own bed until the death of Jess. That day, they had wandered between the police station and the rubble of the apartment, Sam with a blank expression, Dean with fists clenched.

That night for the first and only time in his life, Sam had slipped into the bed of his brother, curled up against his chest and wept, his hands clinging to the old Metallica shirt. And Dean, who hadn't known what to do to soothe him all day did what he had always done. He held him tight against himself, laid his cheek against his own and rocked him, as long as needed, never stopping to repeat "It's going to be okay Sammy, I promise it'll be."

Sam remembered the warmth, the heart of Dean who beat against his own all night, as if it gave him a pace to follow, as if it obliged him to live. As strange and impossible it may seem, Dean had kept his promise, and things had been okay.

He remembered it by waking up alongside Madison the next morning. She was shorter than Jess, didn't have the same scent and her skin hadn't the same texture. But the heat, the beating heart, her breath on his neck were the same and for a moment, just a tiny little moment, Sam closed his eyes and began to imagine that nothing had ever happened. That he was still little and that nothing had happened. Neither his mother, nor Jess, nor the rest.

But he was an adult now. He gently disengaged from Madison's embrace without waking her and pulled the covers over her, moving her hair aside from her face now buried in the pillow to tuck her. He put the first t-shirt that came to hand, smiling at the contact with the cotton so worn that it had become what was softer in the largely common wardrobe of the two brothers. The Metallica logo was almost erased by the successive laundries and he was pretty sure their smell were fixed into it forever. It was reassuring and comforting even in days like this where everything was fine.

He went into the kitchen to let the coffee drip while looking at the sky through the window. Contrary to popular belief there was sometimes an unpleasant weather in Los Angeles and for now the sky was a gray uniform not dark enough for the brightness to blind his tired eyes. He was still yawning when the phone rang.

"Yup?"

The coffee had just filtered, spreading its good smell in the kitchen and he vaguely heard Madison get out of bed, probably awakened by the ring tone or hunger.

"Sammy..."

Sam knew every inflection of the voice of his brother. He hadn't heard this one for a very long time and he clenched his hand around the cup he had just brought out of the cupboard while Madison entered the kitchen.

"Dad is in hospital."

The cup smashed on the floor, startling Madison.

"_I watched over you since we were kids,_

_I'll take the pain and the guilt_

_If there's anything dying for, this is it_

_I just wanted to say I'm sorry it ended like this_"


	17. Chapter 17 : Sold Your Soul

**Warnings: **Swearing, language, panic attack, a bit of self-blaming, inherent homophobic language and behavior (basically, John Winchester)

* * *

**Chapter 17: **Sold Your Soul

"_Your soul was like the sea_

_And you sold it_

_Like you could drown your demons_

_Those who know how to swim_

_And do it without me_"

Dorothy's grandmother was wont to say that the vagaries of life were like buses. You didn't see anything coming for years and suddenly, three at once!

She thought about it on that morning when Charlie's phone rang, pulling them from a sleep so deep they squarely missed the first call. Dorothy heard only half of the exchange that ended with a hasty "We're coming" and she wondered since when "I" had become "We" in the mind of the bassist. Then she was dragged out of bed and forced to dress under a deluge of information repeated in a loop by her partner. Forty five minutes later they were in the hospital lobby and Charlie was having a panic attack as Dorothy hadn't seen one since she herself had stopped to have some. She saw her curl up on herself while waiting their turn at the Information desk, and start breathing very fast while blinking repetively to remove the tears from her eyes.

Dorothy pushed her aside from the counter and forced her to sit to calm down, holding her against herself, rocking her gently while frowning to the attention of onlookers who were throwing curious glances as if they weren't expecting to see someone crying in a hospital. She waited for Charlie to be a little calmer to go alone asking where they could find John Winchester.

"Are you a family member?"

"His daughter." She lied, knowing that the question was rhetorical. She memorized the room number and helped Charlie on her feet to achieve the ascenders.

"We don't have to..." She started but the bassist interrupted her, abruptly raising a hand.

"Yes. We have to, well you don't really have to, but I do. They are my family and a family support each others in times like this."

"Yes, for sure we need support when the father of the year takes a karmic backlash in the face." Dorothy mocked. Charlie glared at her and she pretended to sew her mouth, indicating that she wouldn't mention it again.

The hallways were like Charlie remembered them. Long, lit by neon lights and scattered with smells that seemed to file them in different olfactory universes: food, disinfectant, urine, perfume... They found Sam, Madison and Castiel in the waiting room. They seemed all three in shock but it was probably more the lack of sleep and coffee that gave this impression than a real affliction. Madison pointed to a folding screen on the other side of the hallway.

"They only let us enter one at a time, Dean's there."

Charlie banged her knee against Sam's before sitting beside him. "How are you feeling?"

"Like someone who needs a coffee and to go home to sleep until all this shit is resolved."

"What happened?" Dorothy asked, keeping a discreet watch over Charlie to ensure she kept her calm. The bassist's eyes were flying from one end to the other of the service, following the comings and goings of the medical staff who wasn't interested in them.

"John ran a red light last night. Has been hit by a truck." Castiel answered with the gloomy and clinical tone of someone who delivers an information that doesn't interest him. Dorothy didn't know what to say or what reaction seemed appropriate at this moment.

"And it's my fault." Sam completed taking his face with both hands.

"Stop saying that!" Madison grumbled. "You weren't driving his car, he was drunk and unable to drive that's his problem!"

"You know why he was drunk!"

Madison raised her eyes to heaven. "Yes, and again it has nothing to do with you and that'll serve him right!"

Charlie had hunched her shoulders, and before Dorothy gets up, Castiel had put an arm around the shoulders of the young girl as a sign of encouragement.

"Please don't argue." She implored. "I already hate this place... don't argue!"

Sam and Madison exchanged an embarrassed look and she took his hand to grip it tight.

"Still, it's not your fault."

Sam nodded without answering but he wasn't convinced. He could well imagine in what condition John had been after their meeting the previous day, probably in the same condition as himself, the one that had convinced Madison to not leave him alone for fear that he does something stupid. John was alone the night before and here he was now.

"_Remember how it used to be_

_When we fell in love by the sea_

_I can't lose the ones I love_

_I can't live alone_

_Screams wake you up._"

In the small room, John was a dark shape lying on a bed in a hospital blue tunic that didn't suit him (but according to Castiel these things were designed to not suit anybody). Dean was standing beside the bed, torn between anxiety, fatigue and the urge to be elsewhere.

"I'd like to see..." John cleared his throat with a grimace of pain and searched his words for a few seconds (the time for Dean to count two drops falling from his IV). "Your partner."

"Cas?"

"Yes. Cas, if that's his name."

Dean nodded without understanding what his father had in mind, but whatever, it was still better than the three platitudes they had exchanged since he had arrived. He left the room and glanced around for Castiel. The relief came over him when he saw Dorothy and Charlie. The first seemed bored, the second on the verge of panic, but strangely, to know them here comforted him. That they had made the trip, as well as the fact that Madison had accompanied Sam even though none of the three women appreciated John was a sign that he found strong. The kind of things he really needed at that moment. He mentally noted to inform Kevin about the situation, the kid was part of the family after all, and walked to the bench.

"He wants to see you." He said to the accountant when the latter looked up at him. Castiel sent him a surprised look.

"Me?"

"You."

"Strange."

"As you say."

Castiel stood up and Dean took his place on the bench, giving a comforting nudge to his brother in passing. At the door of the room, the accountant couldn't help to mentally add up the numbers. 9. It was a good figure. He liked the 9. It was like a balloon that flies away.

John gave him a cold stare while Castiel closed the door behind him, tensed and ill at ease.

"You wanted to see me?" They had met only once and Castiel didn't keep a particularly pleasant memory of it, but after all it might be because of what he knew of John through Dean's confessions.

"Don't get close to my son again."

Castiel frowned. John Winchester was not a threatening man. Much smaller than his sons, he had regular features and dark eyes that were able to be tender when he wanted. But at that moment, there was nothing he wanted less than seem tender towards Castiel. Even half sitting in a hospital bed he refused to seem weak or diminished. Where he came from, this kind of things could cost you your life, your career, or both. They stared at each other a moment, Castiel had crossed his arms and lifted his chin, leaning against the wall with an air of defiance. He was eyeballing John, mentally assessing the harm that this man could do to him, the harm he had already caused around him. Dean hadn't told him everything, he would probably never say everything, but between the lines and behind the silences, Castiel hadn't come up with a very high opinion of John Winchester. Nothing either in the attitude of Sam had changed his mind. The drummer contented himself with shrugging when people talked about his father, and dismissing the subject. The only things that Sam never addressed were the most important for him, and Castiel had never backed him into a corner. John gave the impression that if he could, he would have destroyed with his own hands everything that mattered to Castiel. His jaw clenched, his cold and angry eyes expressed pretty much the desire he had to make his life a living hell and make him regret the day he was born, as well as the day he had fallen in love with Dean.

Castiel smirked. He was already regretting the day he was born, or rather resented it for all the suffering he had endured as a child. But nothing in the known universe could have convinced him that loving Dean was a bad thing. This was by far the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to him.

"Or what?" He asked quietly.

"You don't really want to know the answer to that question boy."

Castiel approached the bed and leaned a little to be at the height of John's eyes.

"Actually, yes. I want to know. Or what? If I get close to Dean again what will happen? You will make me regret having laid eyes on him?"

"Worse, kid, far worse." John growled fists clenched on the blanket.

Castiel smiled again, more to bare the fangs he didn't have than for anything else.

"I'm not afraid of you. What are you going to do after all? It's not like you're going out of here soon." He said wickedly. John abruptly sat up, under the sheet the legs barely moved and Castiel nodded to himself. "If ever." He added.

"Don't ever touch my son again! I didn't raise him to be... that!" John hissed with all the fury he could muster. He was very pale, his knuckles were turning white as he clenched hard the sheets in his fists and blood was starting to go up along the infusion tubing, capting the attention of Castiel briefly.

"I haven't changed your son." The accountant said. "And I don't care if you think otherwise. I make him happier than everything you had planned for him."

"Get away from him before a bad accident happens to you kid."

"I'd rather die." Castiel replied dully. "He saved my life. In every imaginable way, even those you can't imagine. And I belong to him now. Body and soul. And I don't care if we don't have your blessing. I'd die rather than letting him go. You cannot compete with it. You can threaten me all you want, but I will stay with him as long as he wants me!" He had not realized that his voice had risen to shout the last word, as if hammering them hard enough was going to give them more impact on John. He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him and nearly bumped into Dean in his flight.

"Hey..." The singer said, automatically wrapping his arms around him. "Hey... calm down..."

"I am calm!" The other protested. He realized he was gasping and his hands were shaking. He clenched them on the jacket of his lover but it reminded him of John's clenched fists and he shook his hands to evacuate this vision with a growl.

"Yeah, like a tornado."

Castiel took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, forcing his heart to beat a little slower.

"I heard what you said." Dean said with a grin.

"Which part?"

"Something about you belonging to me body and soul."

Castiel looked down, he felt himself blushing and found it stupid. Dean leaned toward him to finish his sentence in his ear. "And now we must find an empty room 'cause I need to test this theory right now."

Castiel burst into a laugh so loud, in the middle of the hallway, that a nurse gave him a nasty look and he attracted the attention of their friends still sitting on the bench several steps away. He restrained his hilarity by biting the fat of his hand. Dean wrapped his arms around his chest and held him against himself, rocking him gently.

"I love you." Castiel said, returning his hug, his chin resting on the shoulder of the singer who had nothing to add.

The day had started badly and Dean knew it wouldn't improve when his phone rang about two hours later as they had all taken refuge in a coffee shop three blocks from the hospital. He ignored the first call and the second until Sam's phone starts ringing. They exchanged glances and Sam picked up with a sigh.

"Crowley..." A silence, Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, wincing. "It's not exactly a good time and..." Another silence while at the other end, Crowley was losing his temper, Sam eventually put the phone away from his ear with a sigh. "Ok, fine, we'll be there in an hour." He looked at his watch, frowning to focus on the small hands. "I said an hour Crowley, make do." He replied dryly to what had just said his interlocutor. He hung up and turned off the phone for good measure. The others gave him inquiring looks over their respective drinks. "Crowley wants to see us." He said to Dean.

"Do you want me to come?" Charlie offered.

"No." The two brothers answered at the same time. Since the arrival of Charlie and Kevin in the band, they did their best to avoid them to have any confrontation with Crowley and didn't intend to change that. Castiel fished the keys of his car in his pocket and interrogated the three girls. "May I drive you back?"

They nodded and followed him out of the shop, leaving the Winchester alone.

"What do you think he wants from us?" Sam asked putting his phone away.

"Less than twenty-four hours after our return? Give us hell for Atlanta, give us the promotion plan for the coming months? Know if we have a plan for the next album? I don't know, man." Dean grumbled. "But I don't like it."

"Do we call Bobby?"

"Hell, I'd even call God if I believed in him." The older sighed, finishing his coffee. "Remind me why we signed at Crowley records again?"

Sam shrugged. "Financial security, and I think at the time we thought it was good that someone pays us to do our music." He had turned his phone on again and dialed the number of their manager. Dean snorted.

"Yeah, our music, right." He said darkly. He was starting to have a migraine.

"_I can't sing loud enough_

_To make you come back_

_Life now seems so rough_

_And long lost echoes of guitars_

_Makes me hold on to your heart_"

##

The premises of Crowley Records were spacious, white as a hospital and smelled of lavender. It felt both comfortable and totally uncomfortable. Crowley didn't get up to see them, he had done it only once on the day they had signed their contract. His desk was facing the door, his back to a large bay window that forced his interlocutors to squint to focus on him. He was a man of medium height, with a strong English accent and studied manners whom the Winchester had never heard raise his voice. By way of greeting, he handed them a stack of press clippings.

"You caused quite a sensation during the tour, boys."

Most of the articles were talking about the altercation in Atlanta, some of the memorable shows and a few had photographed on the fly Charlie and Dorothy wandering around town.

"Publicity." Dean retorted by displaying more confidence than he felt. "Good for business."

Crowley fixed his gaze on him over his fingers crossed, elbows on his perfectly tidy desk. "Let me decide of it, lad. Because for now you aren't profitable enough to allow yourselves this kind of stupidity!"

Sam sighed. "And when does profitable become "profitable enough" for you?"

"When I'll have decided so." Crowley said in a low tone. "You don't seem to realise the investmentof time and money that you represent. This." He said by pointing the newspapers. "Puts in jeopardy the hundreds of thousands of dollars that I invested on you, and when you put in jeopardy those hundreds of thousands of dollars, you put in jeopardy the survival of this compagny and of all the people working there." He had gotten up, benefiting from the sitting position of his interlocutors to dominate them from his full height. "Is it clear enough for you or shall I develop to the kids that your unconsciousness will force to do without health cares because YOU morons have not been able to respect a simple contract?"

"We respected the damn contract!" Sam lost his temper. "We handled all the shows, most were sold out, we did all the interviews, all the TV shows and received backstage all the fucking VIP that YOU sent us! Yes we screwed up once, so what? We have no room for error?"

"Not in this business!" Crowley sat down again. "Not when you want to succeed, and I invested too much on you for you to allow yourselves this kind of misdemeanours again, did I make myself clear?"

Sam was ready to respond but Dean silenced him with a hand on his arm. "Fine." He said through clenched teeth. "No more stay at the station."

Crowley nodded, satisfied and pointed to one of the articles with his fingertip. "And tell the girls to be a little more discreet. I don't care what they do but the public could see it unfavourably."

Dean felt like his teeth were going to burst under pressure. "Since when lesbians are no longer a sales pitch?"

"Since your pretty faces are what sales for the most part, dear." Crowley retorted. "And that applies equally for her than for you! Our marketing policy is to make you the ideal companions all right? Keep singing what you want on the quest for self, free will blah blah blah, keep telling teens what they want to hear, and most of all, most of all, don't ever give the impression to not be available for all their fantasies that's all I ask of you!"

Dean rubbed his face hoping to make slightly pass a headache that was only increasing. "Basically you're asking us to be whores."

"Minus the sexual part. That, you do whatever you want with it as long as you remain discreet. I said discreet Sam!"

"I heard the first time." The younger grumbled, thinking about the video on Twitter to which Crowley was referring.

"Good, now that we all agree, let's talk about the orientation of your next album." The producer said on a benevolent tone.

"Crowley, we're worn-out and our father's at the hospital!" Dean protested.

"It has been brought to my attention. Tragic. Not my problem, it's not like you're really attached to him anyway. So? Any ideas, desires? I'm listening?"

It was going to be a very long meeting.

##

"_Distant beatings of the drums_

_Rocks us on the shore_

_You're poison and can't protect me_

_Our souls were like the sea_"

Their first reaction when leaving Crowley's office was to call Bobby. Contrary to the producer, the old manager had their interests at heart more than his wallet. He found them sitting in the living room of the apartment they shared and drinking beer without savoring the tastes.

"Tough day?"

"Worse." Sam answered, emptying his bottle before getting up to get one for Bobby. They related him the interview with Crowley.

"Looks like he has you by the balls." Observed the manager.

"Litteraly. He holds the purse strings, we still owe him two albums or failing that, the reimbursement of what he invested on us and we don't have that money." Dean synthesized. "At a push we wouldn't give a shit but what he wants us to do... Bobby it's almost not music anymore to that point!"

Bobby nodded. "I had warned you that it was a risk. He pays, he has a say in what you do with his money."

"He has well chosen his moment." Said Sam. "You won't make me believe that he called exactly today just by chance. He knew that receiving us tired and just after dad's accident, we wouldn't protest, no matter what he'd say." He had a particularly gloomy look that Bobby had rarely seen him.

Dean nodded. "And yet if it was only us we would tell him to go to hell but..."

"Kevin and Charlie." Bobby completed.

"Yep. We can't deprive them of the financial security that Crowley provides us. No matter how you look at it we'll have to accept two more albums to do crap that sells until he agrees to give us some slack."

"I have the impression of being a whore." Sam muttered, wallowing in the sofa.

"It's not just an impression Sammy."

Bobby had not much to respond to that. He knew for quite a while now just how Crowley's grip on their music horrified the Winchester. He had thought, a few years earlier that it wouldn't matter to them, music was not their first choice after all. But he had underestimated the importance it would take for the boys with time. He had seen their resentment towards Crowley flourish during the year that had lasted their tour. Not so much because of the dark cuts in their music than because of the fact that music was precisely what people talked about the least. Dean's green eyes were way much written about than his work and these boys hadn't left the paternal yoke to be under the domination of someone else, sooner or later this situation wouldn't keep up anymore but their contract didn't allow them a short-term escape.

Bobby wasn't a hopeless optimist, he had seen too many dashed hopes and aborted careers to still have any illusions about his profession or the art business in general. However, he wasn't the type to give up.

"Listen boys... Crowley has you, we all knew it from the beginning, but remember something: if he invested on you at the time it's that he thought retrieve his dough. And we'll have to rely on that."

"How?" Dean asked darkly.

"By beating him on his own turf."

The conversation took them the rest of the afternoon and when Dean's phone rang, they were all three exhausted. The previous night had been short, the day full of strong emotion and his heart lightened a little when he read Castiel's message.

"Hey Sam? Call Madison, tell her to come if she wants to, Cas is bringing pizzas."

Sam wrinkled his nose while retrieving his phone on the table.

"Haven't you boys already eaten enough pizza for the rest of your days?" Bobby groaned as he climbed off the couch.

Dean shook his head without taking his eyes off the text he was typing. "You accompany us for dinner?"

"No thanks, my arteries don't need this. Think about what I told you boys, and rest, you've earned your two days off."

They nodded and Sam walked him to the door while waiting for Madison to answer the phone. She accepted the invitation that Charlie and Kevin declined. They spoke neither of John nor of the appointment with Crowley, not even of the tour that had just ended as if all four were anxious to turn over a bit too crossed out page.

Castiel indicated to Madison his tea stash at the Winchester's and slipped out in company of Dean for the night.

"You're actually a pig." The young woman joked, swaying to watch the room between the door and Sam's arm. He hadn't made the bed or opened the window of the day and the room still had their two combined odors since their hasty departure that very morning. He shook his head.

"I just love being in my cocoon when I sleep." He said simply, entering the room determined to throw a pillow to her face. He refrained at the last moment, seeing the expression on her face. "What?"

"I hadn't realized." She said softly, approaching the bed to automatically smooth a sheet folds. "You find your shape again, your smell…"

Sam nodded. "I told you, a cocoon… it's easier to sleep when you feel safe. At least here. In the bus it's easier, bunks are so small that you feel like sleeping in an egg."

Madison laughed, nodding. The picture was very accurate. "I'm going to shower, do you mind if I borrow your soap?"

He shook his head, already removing his jacket and shirt. She turned before being too distracted by the spectacle. When she returned, a cup of tea in hand and hair still wet, Sam had already gone to bed and only his hair were visible under a thick pile of blankets.

"You seem like you're five like that." She teased, resting her tea on the bedside table where several books piled neatly.

"Don't care." He smiled. He brought an arm from under the blanket to take her hand. "At least it's comfortable!"

She climbed on the bed, lay down fully clothed against him, yawning, and pulled a piece of the quilt over her, gently pushing him aside to get a place on the pillow. He had his back to her now and she put her arms around him to settle comfortably, face pressed against the back of his neck where she laid a light kiss.

He could feel like the illusion of her lashes on his back and her breath that wrapped around the teddy bear tattoo before getting lost on the edge of the blankets. She had wrapped an arm under the blankets and around his chest, mechanically stroking his stomach until her nails rattle the piercing he had on the nipple which she grabbed between her fingers distractedly to slip the nail of her thumb on it. She was beginning to fall asleep, her forgotten tea spreading its sweet smell in the silent room.

"You love that thing." Sam laughed, covering Madison's hand with his own. The movement slightly pulled up the blankets on his chin and he sighed contentedly. She placed another kiss between his shoulder blades.

"You made it because you hoped it'd be touched." She muttered. Her thumb had stopped her whereabouts and Sam found himself wishing she start again. "No doubt Jess would have liked it too." She said again.

There was a moment of silence, he felt that she was holding her breath, aware of having said something a bit inappropriate. He pressed a little tighter her hand into his own and ensconced on the pillow again.

"Don't talk about her. She's not here anymore."

A third kiss, this time on his shoulder answered him and Madison tightened a little against him. Too late for the tea, now. They fell asleep smiling, buried in the bed.

"_Can you feel the rumble of the end coming?_

_Does it pump your blood?_

_Does it turn you on?_"


	18. Chapter 18 : Stardom

**Warnings: Swearing, language, mention of past suicial thoughts, drunkness, physical violence, depiction of physical violence, depiction of great physical pain, implied homophobic violence, mention of past drug use, slight drug use (narcoleptics).**

**If any of those can possibly trigger you or make you uncomfortable, then please skip the third part at least from "Small price to pay for a few hours of carefreeness." (When they get out of the taxi)**

**Guest: **Wow, glad to see you love this story this much! Thank you for the review! I hope you'll like the rest.

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**Chapter 18:** Stardom

Madison was grumpy in the morning. And vulgar. Sam thought it was rather charming until she elbowed him in the stomach by rolling over him to fall out of bed and get to the kitchen.

"Clear off, I need a coffee, now. And I mean now."

Sam chuckled and rewrapped in the blankets for eight minutes of extra sleep before his alarm clock starts ringing. In the kitchen he found a still not coiffed Madison and his brother, both standing staring at the coffee machine as if the combined power of their two gazes was going to help the device to produce the drink faster.

"What have you done to that girl Sammy ?" Dean grunted, raising his empty mug to his younger. "I've never seen her like that."

Madison muttered something unintelligible, covering almost the half asleep "nothing" of Sam. Dean smirked.

"That explains a lot. All these years and you still don't have a way with girls. So I've taught you nothing?"

Madison looked like a woman ready to kill them both by poisoning their coffee.

"You're always this funny in the morning?" She grumbled. She poured the drink in three cups and handed one to each of the boys, accompanied by a glower before grabbing hers as if it were heaven-sent.

"I just like to have fun." Dean answered cheerfully.

"So I've heard." She replied, leaning against the counter to sip her first gulp of coffee.

"And what does that mean?"

"That you have a rather noisy boyfriend, and those walls" Madison pointed the partitions of the apartment. "aren't exactly soundproofed."

Sam laughed at the outraged and embarrassed look of Dean and the smirk that Madison was trying to hide in her mug. Three sips of coffee later and she hoisted on tiptoe to kiss a very flushed Dean on the cheek.

"You mad at me?"

He shook his head. "Keep her caffeinated Sammy."

Sam nodded silently and put his empty mug in the sink before Madison slip a finger into the waistband of his jogging and lead him back to the bedroom. Dean poured himself a second cup of coffee and another in a clean cup for Castiel. He, too, was never in a good mood in the morning. He slightly shook his lover to pull him out of his sleep, slipping into the still warm sheets, carefully holding the cup over him while Castiel snuggled up against his chest, a hand extended toward the precious beverage. He drank eyes closed and gave him back the cup with a sigh of satisfaction, so soon almost ready to go back to sleep. But Dean had had a restless sleep and a short night and he took advantage of the pseudo wake of his lover to express aloud what was bothering him since the day before.

"I think Crowley wants to fire us."

Castiel opened his bewildered eyes still puffy from sleep.

"Either that or force us to make the music that he wants. Which is the same because we'll eventually go in these conditions." It felt good to say it even if that didn't change the problem. "It's not _Free Will _I should have named the group, but '_Hooker_'."

Castiel sighed, returning to his pillow. "Crowley's contempt towards you is proportional to his want for you to suck him off." He closed his eyes for ten minutes of extra sleep. "What?" He grunted, feeling the eyes of Dean on him.

"Since when do you talk like that? And since when do you confuse Crowley's intentions with yours?" Teased the singer.

"Since he and I are clearly the only ones to have a rational view of things. Sex aside."

He opened his eyes just long enough to see the very puzzled expression of Dean, the face he wore when he didn't understand what had just been said and he smiled, sinking back under the blanket. "I'll explain. Meanwhile, sleep, you won't be able to do something about it right now and I'm still sleepy."

Dean smirked, not really convinced but still pulled up the blanket over them and leaned against the back of Castiel, in the warm, as peaceful as he could be in the circumstances.

Later, Castiel explained Dean what, from what he said had eluded him so far.

"Crowley is only after money, what you need is to show him that by doing exactly what you want, it will bring him more than by formatting your music."

Dean had a wry chuckle. "Aren't you the one who said two days ago that we don't give a damn about music and that it's not what sells?"

Castiel lowered his head, a bit ashamed. "I shouldn't have said that." He apologized. "But that's only half music you are currently doing and which sells both because of itself and because Sam and you sell it well. The music you were doing before, that's what attracted Crowley's ear and made him assume that you could pay big. I don't see why this music, precisely, would not sell better than the one you're currently doing."

Dena frowned. "Are you saying we're currently doin' crap?"

Castiel shook his head. "I'm only saying it's not "_Hellhound_" that prevented me from commiting suicide."

The word hung suspended between them for a moment before dissolving on the pillow.

"What would you do in my place?"

##

Sitting at his desk, Crowley was watching Dean over the tips of his fingers together in a triangle up to his nose. The sun that filtered behind large gray clouds gave the eyes of the singer the exact color of chartreuse and he showed a self-confidence based, Crowley had seen it immediately, only on the speech he had learned by heart. They both knew that Dean didn't care to give the impression of reciting a lesson. He believed in it enough to assume his insecurity, not enough to be entirely convincing.

Crowley appreciated his determination for lack of giving credit to what Dean had just told him. Between sentences he could hear the projections on investment from someone who was way better conversant with finance than Dean Winchester. Probably his boyfriend.

Was a time, a lot of years ago, where Crowley had sincerely believed that what made revenue in the artistic milieu was the quality of production. Of course he knew artists that were posthumously famous only but he actually had taken the measure of his naivete after having invested several times and lost a lot of money in projects in which it believed. He had finally resigned as he said to "play the game" of the music industry. His production house had started to generate profits when he had agreed to focus more on the promotion and post-production than on the artists themselves. He didn't unduly like Free Will's music but some decades in the business had sharpened his senses enough that he see an opportunity when it's presented to him. The opportunity was Dean Winchester's green eyes and his voice a little too low and husky perfectly adjusted to his lyrics. Crowley found them pathetic of banality but apparently the teenagers of that time liked this. He felt old sometimes when thinking about it. Where were those who had nurtured his own youth? Probably buried so deep that the mind of the mass wouldn't remember them even if one did a biopic about each of the artists who had in one way or another led Crowley to this business.

He had reworked the group, giving them just enough identity on their own right to interest the target audience, and just enough "mainstream" to satisfy the widest possible audience. He had used and almost abused of Sam's soft spot for his fans to add a slight hint of scandal to the promotion of the group. It was a double-edged sword which he knew he should be wary of before a real scandal explode in his face. But the arrival of Madison in Sam's personnal life, if it would irreparably taint his aura of fickle bad boy would have the interest to avoid Crowley to handle complaints that would necessarily be filed against him once his fame would make it possible to take advantage of it. Sam might be a moron, but Crowley wasn't and he protected his investments.

Dean was waiting for his response, tense, jaws clenched as if he were ready to hit him in case of refusal. Crowley could have crushed him with a sentence. Pointing out that the argument "you believed in our potential when we were just ourselves, why others wouldn't believe in it" was ridiculous because before signing with him, the Winchester were wandering from one bar to the other, considering themselves rich when they had fifty dollars in their pocket.

But a very small part of him gave a second thought to this idea. The talent wasn't all, neither was work and contrary to popular belief, money and publicity easily compensated one or the other. Crowley wanted to believe that the enthusiasm of the group could offset the lack of formatting of their third album. Deep down he liked these kids. He spoke before actually having made a decision in his head.

"And how long would take this project?"

Dena shrugged. "One year I guess, like _Hellhound_. But you'll gain in production time if you don't have to modify and edit everything after recording."

Crowley nodded.

"I give you one month. In a month if you show me a coherent project, I give you almost free rein. I still want a say and validation, but for the rest... You have one month to convince me that I won't go under by letting you do as you wish."

"It's too short."

"Take it or leave it."

Their gazes confronted each others a moment, just long enough for Crowley to think that in the worst case, unless a tragic accident disfigure him, Dean's face would almost be enough to sell records. Teenage girls were buying almost anything these days.

"Fine."

When Dean left the office, he expected that a weight rise from his shoulders, this wasn't the case. But this time, the ball in his stomach was excitement, which in itself was rather positive.

##

Castiel refrained from rolling his eyes with a sigh. The intern was making efforts, many, or even too much. She was scrutinizing his computer with narrowed eyes.

"That's _Free Will_? You know that band?" She said in a tone to the limit of skepticism.

"No. I have their logo on my screen because I like pentacles." He answered in a voice he hoped was dripping with sarcasm.

"Isn't that a Star of David?"

Castiel sighed inwardly.

"No, it is a pentacle." He repeated. The accounting balance sheet where he was vainly seeking a mistake of nine dollars and eighty ten cents was pushed back on a corner of the table for the next three minutes as he turned to the intern now decked out with a big smile.

"The singer's really hot, no?"

This time Castiel didn't even try to hide his exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. "What does it matter?" He snarled, crossing his arms. "It's the music that matters, not the musician."

The girl nodded. "But still, he's pretty damn hot, the drummer too."

"Sam." Castiel corrected by automatic reflex. She threw him a puzzled look. "The drummer's name is Sam."

"Yeah whatever, I love that band." The girl said again, perching a buttock on the desk, arms wrapped around the folder Castiel had just entrusted her as if her task was to keep it warm. "They're so cool."

Castiel knew she was simply trying to improve their relationship and that it was not her fault that she had chosen the worst possible ground for this. The case had already occurred and he knew he'd better keep quiet and return to work, but he was tired and worried. Dean had an appointment this morning with Crowley to expound his plan for their third album, of this exchange depended the future of Free Will. Castiel was worried, as a lover, as a fan and overall he was in a bad mood.

"Yes, they're cool, but it has nothing to do with their looks. Doesn't matter that they are handsome, doesn't matter that you pass out seeing the eyes of Dean or the arms of Sam. Don't look at me like that I know exactly what you think when you see them. And if it has nothing to do with the impact their music can have on people, if when you look at them you don't pay attention to the message they convey nor how their music can influence the course of the lives of people, I would like you to change the subject. It's the music that matters, not the musician, so if the only thing you're able to do is comments like this, you better go back to work because for now you're wide of the mark either in music or in accounting and this company doesn't pay you to comment my wallpaper."

The girl was pale and tearful and Castiel dismissed her with a wave of his hand, watching her return to her desk, sniffing.

"You're harsh." Commented a colleague.

"I would not be if she was competent or at least invested in her internship." Castiel retorted, pulling his accounting balance sheet to him before bury himself back to it as if nothing had happened. He vanished as usual at lunch time, waiting for Dean's call which quickly arrived. They had agreed to quite a few rules in their relationship, they had established those of discretion when, two years before Castiel had obtained his first job as an accountant in the company where he was still working today. Dean didn't call at work, didn't come to pick him up, and for the important things like the meeting that morning, Castiel slipped away at noon and went to take refuge in the park.

He wedged the phone between his cheek and shoulder while getting rid of his jacket, rolling up his sleeves with one hand while Dean told him in minute detail his talk with Crowley. He smiled, raising his face to the sun, with a little ball of excitement in the pit of his stomach.

"One mounth. It's short." He said.

"Very. But I have no choice."

"We have no choice." Castiel corrected. He almost heard Dean nod at the other end of the line.

"I like your involvement in this project." The singer laughed. "By the way, about it I'll probably have a favor to ask you."

"Can this wait tonight? I am going to be late for my meeting." Said the accountant, squinting to see the time on his watch despite the reflection of the sun. Dean agreed. Castiel was just hanging up when he slid behind his desk, a slight smile on the lips. He knew people had questions about him, that there were rumors about him and his supposed celibacy and basically it amused him a lot.

What amused him less, however, was to find Charlie and Dorothy at his desk when he returned from his meeting two hours later. The redhead as always was wearing her red boots now dirty and scratched, with shorts that had to be of jeans one day and a leather jacket too warm for the season. She was sprawled in his chair, feet on his desk and Castiel gritted his teeth by slapping her on the knee with the top of the folder in his hand. Dorothy chuckled, rising from the desk where she was perched while the intern was looking at them with wide eyes.

"What are you two doing here?" Castiel asked as a greeting. Charlie held out her cheek for him to kiss her.

"We came to pick you, there is a bar three blocks from here which happy hour starts in fifteen minutes!"

Castiel cast a curious glance at Dorothy, expecting her to have a rational explanation for it but the young woman shrugged sullenly.

"It's her idea, not mine and don't ask me where she brings that from, she woke up from a nap and dragged me here that's all I know!"

Castiel smiled, imagining the scene and put his folder on the desk. Charlie had already turned off his computer and collected all his belongings with a meticulousness that was not like her.

"Are we celebrating something?" He asked.

"The fact that we can still celebrate." Charlie answered, standing up. "The way things are going we won't have many opportunities to do so in a while. And you're compulsory coming with us because drinking à deux sucks and Sam and Dean refused to come and Kevin won't answer his phone!"

Castiel felt like a wave of ice pound on him, he knew with certainty that the intern had heard Charlie. He also knew she was wondering since her arrival if she had well recognized her and that her last sentence would only confirm it.

"You're... Excuse me but aren't you Charlie Bradbury?" The girl said, rising.

"Yes, why?"

Charlie wasn't yet quite used to being recognized outside the tours without her clothing and stage makeup. Castiel threw a hunted beast look to Dorothy who, unlike her companion seemed to understand the situation. Before the intern could utter a sound, she had gripped the bassist by the shoulders and pushed her toward the door while Castiel recovered his bag full of folders and slipped away with a nod to the attention of the intern. His heart was pounding in his chest and his hands were shaking. In a fortunately empty elevator he glared at Charlie.

"She recognized you."

"Yeah it's great, right?" Suddenly the young woman seemed to realize. "Oh crap... You think she's gonna make the connection? That she's going to suspect something for you and Dean?"

Castiel leaned against the elevator mirror and ran a hand over his face and hair, the other still clutching the handle of the briefcase. "Certainly... I'll invent something by tomorrow to confuse the issue."

They emerged in the low sun of the late afternoon, Charlie stammering apologies and vowing never to return to see him at his office. Castiel finally cut her short with a hand gesture.

"Drop it Charlie... it's okay. Now I really could use a drink or two."

A drink or two became three then four and they stayed long after happy hour. Castiel held his liquor pretty bad, he well might know that it was a genetic trait, he still laid blame on the numerous pills that he had to take, still took occasionally and had disordered his liver. Charlie often made fun of him about it. "You just don't know how to drink!" and he would take up another drink to follow her under the gaze both amused and slightly disapproving of Dorothy. Alcohol was pleasantly spreading through his veins, blurring the outlines of the world, making him swim in cotton, furred mouth, joyful mind and floating in ethanol vapors mixed with the lightweight cigarette perfume of the other bar patrons. It was nice for a moment to forget the least of his worries, no longer have the concept of time or his own body. He vaguely felt the strong arms of Dorothy wrap around his waist and pushing him into a taxi somewhere in mid-night and the jolting of the vehicle that brought him back at Dean's. He vaguely remembered they had like an appointment for which he was more than late. Next to him, Charlie was giggling continuously.

He forced himself to repress his drunkenness, to sharpen his gaze, to breath slowly in order to try to evacuate alcohol quickly without much success. He greeted the two girls when coming out of the taxi, handed a bill to the driver and took a deep gulp of fresh air to sober up a little. He was still walking straight, still knew where he was, he would probably get off with no more than drink his weight in water the next day, swearing to never touch a drop of alcohol again while Dean would laugh at him. Small price to pay for a few hours of total carefreeness. The taxi started to move away slowly and he focused on the entrance of the building of the Winchester. He didn't see coming the first blow. The fist struck him in the temple, stars painfully exploded before his eyes as he fell half on the trash next to the door, his keys in hand. Then a kick in his loins made him yelp and curl on himself. He half-opened his eyes to see his attackers but only discerned two dark silhouettes leaning over him. They seized him by the collar and blows showered down on his face, he barely felt the pain after the first one, stopped breathing at the second and the more they hit the more he lost it, unable to formulate another thought than "_I'm going to die, I'm going to die here_..."

He was barely aware of the pitiful moans that escaped him nor that other blows struck him elsewhere than the face. His head hit the ground hard when his assailant released him, attacked in turn by a slender and screaming shape. No, two other shapes... It was too dark, Castiel's vision was too blurry, too full of blood, too tinged with pain so he could identify anyone. Black and bright spots danced before his eyes, blink was torture and he moaned when a final kick in the stomach reached him. He was seized with a violent retching and barely had time to turn before vomiting on the pavement. Bile and half-digested alcohol added a new pain to the list of those that already assailed him. He felt rather than saw steps pass beside him, then an almost comforting presence above him. His ears were ringing, he was trembling with all his members and pain refused to ease. He recoiled when Charlie's hand gently landed on his shoulder, and then the young woman's arms wrapped around him.

"They're gone." She said softly, barely loud enough for him to hear over the buzz of his ears. Again Dorothy's arms pulled him on his feet, this time more gently than when she had put him in the taxi. If Castiel had been able to speak he would have asked what had just happened. It had seemed to last centuries or only three seconds. His head was spinning, he was still nauseous and wanted to cry now.

"Dean..." He croaked. They were two meters from the door, he was still clutching the keys in his hand and Dorothy took them from him while crushing the intercom with her elbow. The stairs seemed insurmountable to Castiel's shaking legs. He realized that Charlie was also shaking. Then finally, finally the Winchester's door opened and Castiel collapsed, half kneeling, half in Sam's arm who had thrown himself on him when seeing him fall down.

"DEAN!" The drummer shouted, painfully strenghtening his grip on his friend.

Castiel couldn't see nor hear anything else than his heart that was racing, the retrospective fear, flashes of the fists striking him and he began to sob for good. He couldn't care less to be seen crying, no matter if every twitch of his body hurt him like hell and mattered little to him the worried and desperate look of Dean. They hadn't passed the entrance, hadn't even crawled to the living room that Castiel was lying in a sobbing ball in the arms of his lover, bloodying his shirt, clinging to him as hard as he dared.

"We're going to the hospital." He heard Dean say.

"No!" No hospital. Not again. He had already spent enough time there this year. He slightly pulled away from Dean just enough so that the other could see the refusal and determination on his bruised face. "No hospital, it'll be ok."

"Don't be stupid." Sam grunted, somewhere far away above them. "You may have something broken."

Castiel feebly shook his head. His face was pressed against Dean's chest again, the buttons of his shirt were sinking uncomfortably in his cheek. "I can move, I can breathe. It's going to be allright." He croaked. The pain was finally beginning to ease. He felt completely sober now.

He felt himself dragged through the apartment on his legs that barely supported him, then laid as gently as possible on the bed, which seemed wonderfully soft to him. Dean helped him to get rid of his jacket, yapping some orders to Charlie's attention. He hadn't turned on the light and was standing out in dark shape against the light of the living room in the visual field of Castiel. He closed his eyes and almost immediately felt something soft, warm and wet land on his temple, gently soaking up the blood there. Then on his forehead, his cheek, his exploded lip and finally his nose that stabbed him with every breath. He felt Dean's finger follow the still straight bridge before declaring that it wasn't broken. He answered to Dean's questions in monosyllables, the date, his name, what had happened, do you know where you are?

"I'm at your home." He answered, he didn't add "in safety" but he thought it hard. "I don't know what happened. They were two."

Dean asked nothing else, and Castiel plunged into a dazed and alcoholic semi-unconsciousness as he finished cleaning his wounds.

In the living room, Sam had made tea to Charlie and forced Dorothy to sit on the couch to examine her scratched fists and her eyebrow arch exploded by a punch. Charlie was still trembling with all her members, threatening to topple her cup at every moment and Dorothy eveded Sam's cares like a cat to whom one would like to make take a bath. He eventually thrown a compress soaked with water in her face, exasperated.

"What the hell happened?" Dean grunted when finally entering the room, shirt covered with the blood of Castiel, carrying in one hand a basin full of wet and bloody cotton. Dorothy took the compresses from Sam's hands and placed them herself on her cut, grimacing with pain.

"I didn't see all of it." She said. "They were two, they lashed out at Castiel. Time for me to stop the taxi and that we arrive, he was on the ground and they were mangling him."

"You fought?"

Dorothy nodded, swallowing the sarcastic comment she had on the lips. Charlie slipped a hand on her leg and she pressed her knees to trap the fingers of her companion, who was still trembling.

"They didn't try to steal anything to him, they didn't really try to repel me either."

"Smashed guys?" Sam proposed with questioning glance.

Dorothy shook her head. "They weren't staggering, they seemed clear, and I assure you they fought better than a pair of tooters." In the medicine box open on the coffee table she took a small tube of numbing cream and massaged it on her knuckles. She hadn't fought for quite some time and had forgotten how hitting someone on the sternum or under the chin could be as bad for the one who struck than the one who took the blow. Nobody said anything for a while. A little blood came coloring the cream that she was passing on her hands and Sam approached to replace the compress on her forehead by an antiseptic and adhesive sutures.

"Look like a real pirate." He joked, but the heart was not.

Dean had poured himself a cup of tea in hopes to calm down a bit. He and Charlie were staring at each other.

Dorothy bit her lip, wondering if it was wise for her to say what she had in mind. Probably not. It wouldn't heal Castiel, and it certainly wouldn't appease the anger or fear of Dean. A cloud had come over his face, the features hardened by his jaw clenched and he was pale. Castiel's blood was drying in his neck and even as he was, leaning against the counter in the kitchen, half his body remained tense towards the door of his room on the lookout for any moan from Castiel.

"It wasn't an accident." She said quietly, almost grudgingly. The three others threw her a questionning look but already Dean's expression had changed slightly. He understood, and what she would say would only reinforce a maybe wrong thought. An thought shared by Dorothy and that horrified her as much as it terrified her. "They were waiting for him. They knew Castiel would come here. They weren't drunk roughnecks."

Dean might as well be dead, his face no longer showed any emotion. Sam on the contrary stood up rather violently as if moving could take him away from Dorothy's observations, he started to nervously pace the room without leaving his brother's eyes. She gulped and slipped her hand into Charlie's to seek some comfort. "What do you mean?" The bassist asked in a small voice. Dorothy turned to her, feeling sick and pressed her hand really tight.

"These guys knew how to fight, they knew how to hit without getting hurt. They were trained and they were here for Castiel."

Charlie swallowed and shook her head, unable to say anything.

A few hours later, the alcohol having definitely left his system, the pain came back and hit Castiel, awaking him with a start. Dean was here, sitting on the bed next to him and reflexively, Castiel tried to take him in his arms, but every inch of his skin seemed made of sensitive glass and he winced.

"Here, take this." Dean said, holding some pills to Castiel. The young man grunted, seizing them and a glass of water.

"What is it?"

"Believe me it is effective."

Castiel's hand stopped halfway to his mouth and he frowned painfully. "You lost me at 'believe me'." He said, forcing the words out of his mouth. Dean sighed.

"Take them and sleep! You need it."

"No." Castiel replied. He hadn't the courage to shake his head but the desire was there. He put the pills on the blanket. "You've already taken some?" This wasn't the time to have a discussion, but it was something almost normal, trivial enough to make him forget the events of the evening and for now, Castiel wanted more than anything to pretend that nothing had happened.

Dean nodded. "After the death of Jess. I couldn't let Sammy take something that I hadn't tested before."

"Lie apart when did you test them for the first time?"

Every word was difficult to pronounce and not just because they physically hurt his throat. Because they also heartbroke him. All these things he didn't know about his lover, all these secrets buried so deep that music didn't always manage to dig up. And it had to come up again at the worst possible time.

"Sometimes we just need to sleep Cas... Just..." Dean stopped. "Sleep, you need it."

Castiel considered the pills half a minute before slipping them into his mouth and help them pass with some water. One of them remained across his throat for a second.

"Satisfied?"

Dean leaned to put a kiss on his forehead. "Good night."

"You're staying?"

Dean nodded. "I'm not goin' anywhere."

For the first time in a long time Dean didn't wrap his arm across the hips of his lover. He let Castiel settle in the least painful possible position, put a bag of ice wrapped in a cloth in the hollow of his back where a huge bruise was beginning to form. He protected himself from the cold with a fold of the blanket and slipped cautiously against the back of his lover, slipping an arm around his shoulders with a wealth of precautions.

"Is it okay like that?"

"Yes." Castiel sighed, slipping his own hand into his up to his chest. Dean gently squeezed his knuckles and let him slip into a sleep induced by the narcoleptics. He himself didn't sleep.


	19. Chapter 19 : Consequences

**Warnings: **Swearing, language, mention of homophobic violence, John Winchester (I think he belongs here now), slight homophobic language, brief mention of homophobic behavior

* * *

**Chapter 19: **Consequences

For Castiel the night was troubled with nightmares from which he woke painfully, moaning in pain before falling asleep again immediately with the warm, familiar hand of Dean on his shoulder or neck while the singer whispered reassuring words in his ear. The two-way trip to the bathroom in the early morning was perilous and Dean had hardly sat him up gently on the bed that his phone began to vibrate on the nightstand. He vaguely remembered having heard the vibrations several times in the night. Dean picked, reassuring Charlie probably for the tenth time since yesterday.

The time for the effect of the pills had dissipated enough so his vision was no longer blurred, Sam had already come twice to inquire after him. Castiel would have smiled if his face didn't hurt him so much. Between two periods of semi awakening, he plunged back into brief nightmares that pressed his stomach and made him muffle tears into his pillow. Dean said nothing, Castiel knew he was hiding his concern and tried not to wince when he eventually got up during the morning.

"I have to call at work." He realized in his fog of old pain and fatigue.

"Done already. And Kevin already sent them the expertise of the doctor and your work stoppage."

Castiel frowned. "I didn't see a doctor." Dean shrugged when emerging from the bed in his turn.

"This is what happen when you let a clever boy near Charlie too long. They end up making false medical statements."

"He could go to jail for that!"

"Yeah, and also for drinking when he wasn't old enough." Dean retorted. "Stop fretting, it was that or bring a doctor here. I know there's a story of medical confidentiality but you were the one who wanted to remain discreet, right?"

There was no animosity in the tone of Dean and yet Castiel felt a wave of guilt overwhelm him. He remained standing beside the bed, head down, idle and aching until Dean's arms close very gently around him.

"Sorry." Said the singer, burying his face in the hollow of the neck of the accountant. "I shouldn't have said that."

Castiel gripped him against himself cautiously despite his still sore arm to have clenched his fists all night and despite his ribs protesting. "How long it lasts, the false work stoppage?"

"Two days. We thought that anyway you wouldn't stay in bed longer."

Castiel smiled, his friends had eventually gotten to know him well. Later, in the bathroom he saw the new bruises that now adorned his chest, back, arms, hips plus a large one on a thigh.

"Sometimes I don't even remember the true color of my skin." He grumbled before swallowing a painkiller and switch on the hot water from the shower at the lowest flow possible. Dean let out a sneer in the bedroom where he was finishing dressing. His shower finished, Castiel dragged himself to the kitchen to make coffee and was welcomed by the worried and sad look of Sam.

"You're all right?"

He nodded with a grunt. "Given the circumstances I have no reason to complain."

Sam bent his head over his own coffee. He had settled at the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. Sprawled would have been a better term, his large frame lay half on the varnished wood, one arm bent under his chin, the other lying before him, his hand dangling, almost inert in the void.

"I'm sorry." He eventually said.

"For what?" Castiel pushed Sam's arm to make room and the drummer sat up a little before throwing him a puzzled look.

"For what? Cas… My father paid guys to smash your face in!"

For a second it seemed to Castiel that the world had just stopped. He hadn't thought about it. Actually since the day before he tried to suppress all thoughts related to the aggression at the farthest distance possible of his conscience. He shook his head.

"You don't know that."

Sam sighed and glanced at Dean who entered the living room before speaking again. "It already happened. I'd really like to believe it's bad luck once, but not twice." He said with a dark look. "He threatened you the other day at the hospital, and you stood up to him. No one stands up to my father!"

"Yes. You do." The accountant retorted. His still full mug of coffee was taunting him, he had a knot in the stomach and was not sure that swallowing something would dissolve it. Behind Sam he saw Dean lift a thumb up with a smile.

"On this one he's right." The singer laughed.

"Yeah and it ended really well as everyone knows." Sam grouched.

Dean and Castiel exchanged a look. The accountant said nothing and put his mug to his mouth, indicating the still half-full coffee maker to Dean. The silence dragged out until Sam grumble an annoyed "What?". Castiel couldn't hold back a laugh, grimacing when it painfully lifted his ribs. Dean was leaning over the counter to pour himself a coffee and smiled at his brother.

"The part that didn't end well according to you, this is the one where you earn your living doing what you love? The one where you've traveled across America to be idolized by lots of people, or the one where you got a hot chick to embellish you bed?"

"Firstly," Sam replied, raising a finger in the air. "Madison isn't an embellishment, secondly this is not what it was about and you two know that perfectly well."

Castiel waved his hand in a sign of disinterest. "Forget it Sam, it doesn't matter, I'm okay."

Neither of the two brothers replied but he knew they didn't agree. To be honest Castiel knew he was lying to himself. It did matter, it was even terrifying. So far, not exposing his relationship with Dean had had the primary purpose of protect the singer and preserve his tranquility. It had never really occurred to him that being discovered could be dangerous for them. He remained alone with Dean while Sam was preparing to go out with his brother for their first working meeting with Charlie and Kevin for the next album. Life went on as normal even if they would have wanted to pause it a few days. It was both comforting and disastrous.

"You stay here and you rest today." Dean said in the tone he probably formerly used when he ordered something to Sam. Castiel nodded distractedly, lost in his thoughts. He was not particularly worried about what might happen to him, he had spent his childhood in a hospital bed and saw every day as a bonus gift. Pain and fear had been so long part of his everyday life that he no longer really granted importance to it. But Dean... He tried to imagine Dean in his situation. Each breath slightly painful, the lips with a metallic taste to have been broken a few hours earlier, each blink of eyes that seemed having fun to reopen a cut on his eyebrow. He tried to imagine Dean assaulted, beaten, and clenched his fist on the handle of the cup until it hurt.

He didn't care what might happen to him, but to imagine that this could happen to Dean... He didn't care that his assailants were drugged junkies, homophobes or men paid by John Winchester. But imagine them harming Dean was beyond him. Suddenly he wanted to scream, to cry, panic overwhelmed him without him noticing and left as it had come when Dean covered his hand from his own on the empty mug.

"You okay?"

Castiel nodded, staring at their joined hands, and just above their tattooed wrists, the eight egrets falling of the dandelion on his own, the rose with the thorny stem wrapped around Dean's. The singer leaned just enough to lay a kiss on his temple and Castiel closed his eyes and sighed, enjoying just half a second of respite in his obsessive thoughts until Dean pulled away when Sam returned. He watched him walk away with his brother without really seeing him until Dean gestured to him, his hand on the door handle.

"Cas..."

"Hm?"

"When you leave, don't forget your keys."

##

The night of Dorothy and Charlie hadn't been better than the one of their friends. Arms crossed behind her head in the bed of her finally asleep companion, Dorothy was looking at the ceiling without seeing it. She was seeing the two strangers who had attacked Castiel and the cold determination they had put in beating him while he was down. It still hurt her a little when she closed her fist and the almost quiet breath of Charlie next to her was bothering. If she closed her eyes, it wasn't Castiel that she saw but the bassist. It was horribly easy to imagine her in the same situation, to imagine her pale skin covered in bruises, to imagine her grimacing in pain with every movement. And it was just as easy to imagine why this might happen.

"You're thinking too loud." Charlie said, opening her eyes. She had fallen asleep barely an hour earlier after her last call to Dean to ensure that Castiel was fine.

"Same for you."

"I'm reassured now." Charlie propped herself on one elbow and pushed the bangs that fell before her eyes. "You look increasingly bleak."

Dorothy was too honest to consider denying it, she just shrugged.

"What's on your mind? Castiel's almost in the clear, everything's all right now."

It was one of the things Dorothy preferred to Charlie: her optimism that sometimes bordered on naivety. It was touching and also unbearable. She didn't see, didn't even seem to understand in what kind of world she was living.

"What's on my mind is that it could happen to you."

For a second, Charlie looked puzzled before laying down against her companion again, one hand on her hip, chin propped against her shoulder.

"It won't happen to me."

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do." Charlie replied. "Your family won't send anyone to hit me to make me leave you. And it's been almost three decades that I like girls, no one ever beat me up because I was holding my girl's hand in the street."

Dorothy sighed, exasperated. "You've been lucky."

"No. You know, people like lesbians especially when they don't look like truckers."

"I'm a trucker."

"But a sexy one. People like sexy chicks. It's not homosexuality that disturbs them, but sodomy."

Dorothy burst into laughter despite herself. Charlie rolled over her, one hand leg either side of her hips and sat on her pelvis. She had the mark of the pillow on the cheek and black marks of badly cleansed mascara around the eyes that made her look like a grumpy panda.

"No one's gonna hurt me." She promised, leaning over to kiss her companion.

"In all the books that's what the heroin says before getting a right mouthful."

Charlie smiled. "Let's just hope I'm not the heroin of the book."

While the bassist was preparing for her meeting with the Winchester, Dorothy was thinking that for someone else, she wouldn't have worried. She could lay blame on Charlie's naivety, on the certainty that if she was assaulted, the bassist wouldn't be able to defend herslef. She could also be honest with herself and admit she was simply afraid that someone harm Charlie because then herself would suffer. She could have the honesty to admit to herself that if she was afraid it was because Charlie had become so important to her that the mere idea that someone hurt her made her hackles rise.

The kitchen of Charlie was purple like pretty much all her apartment, with a dark red worktop and a window where the sun was framed for half the afternoon before going down. The sound of the kettle and the shower were the only things that troubled the morning silence. It was lacking of the sound of the engine of the bus, of Dean's blaring waking, of the muffled sound from Sam's headphones. Dorothy was so used to these noises that she felt strangely shaky now they no longer surrounded her. With a little time she would again get used to silence, to the still wet steps of Charlie on the floor. She was already used to the muscular arms of the bassist around her, to her lips on her neck.

"Still thinking?"

"One cannot help thinking."

"What are you thinking?"

They were facing the window which offered the depressing landscape of a gray and almost empty street to contemplate. Charlie smelled mint and Dorothy turned to kiss her, ignoring the kettle that emitted a delighted beep to announce that the water was hot.

"I love you."

Charlie shuddered and looked at her, puzzled. It was the first time that Dorothy said that to her, and she was already biting her lips for it. The bassist clung to her neck with all her strength with a huge smile.

"I thought you'd never say it!"

The breakfast had a particular taste, they were smiling at each other across the table while the sky imperceptibly colored. On the step of the door they slammed behind them, Charlie kissed her again and took her hand to accompany her out. Dorothy looked for a moment their fingers intertwined. During the tour, they were so discreet that they only touched each other in private. It was an unexpected novelty.

"Aren't you afraid that someone see us or take your picture? It's not really in your best interests that people know." She pointed out while they were coming down the street to the bus stop.

Charlie shrugged. "No one's gonna burn us alive for that." She said. "Stop finding excuses for yourself and be confident!" She stood on tiptoes. "And kiss me again."

They were still hand in hand and mouth against mouth when the bus arrived.

##

Kevin would be very careful not to admit it out loud, but sometimes he seemed to be the only reasonable and more or less responsible person of the group although he was the youngest. In a crisis situation, he was the only one to keep a cool enough head to get things done. He was the one who had had the idea of the stopping work for Castiel and who had passed on his symptoms to his doctor to make sure his friend was in no imminent danger.

That morning he was in the studio the first, arms cluttered of a load of bagels, coffee and sandwiches because he doubted any of his companions had actually breakfasted before arriving. The suite proved him right when Sam threw himself on a bagel with one hand while the other briefly pressed Kevin against him. None of them really had the desire or inspiration for this meeting where they were to define the lines of work for their third album. But time was running on them, Crowley would claim something at the end of the month and if they had nothing to present, they knew all the four that he would take up the reins of the production of the album. None of the four particularly wanted that.

"Yet that would simplify things for us." Finally said Kevin, sprawled in an armchair near the mixing desk. A large white board occupied the entire wall behind him, for now still blank of any inscription even if they had aligned at the foot of the wall markers of all colors to give free rein to their imagination. "We wouldn't need to think about this when we have other problems."

"We don't have problems." Dean grumbled. "We just need to get goin'!"

"Yes Dean, we have problems." Charlie intervened. "Deny it as much as you want, but you're worried about Cas. We're all worried about him and I'm worried about you boys! Your father is at the hospital damn it! And he probably got our friend beaten up!"

"Thank you for this summary of previous episodes Princess, next time don't hold back from telliing us something we don't know yet!" The leader said darkly. He was a bit blaming himself for talking to her like that but he didn't like that she was right on this point in particular. None of them was in a mood to work and he and Sam did their best to reject the thought that their father was alone in the hospital and that if they had been good sons, they would currently be at his bedside. He stood up and faced the wall.

"So, how do you imagine this album?"

Only silence answered. The unproductive meeting laboriously dragged on until they all decreed by common consent that they wouldn't mount to anything that day.

"I think you two need to go see your father." Kevin said when they parted. Sam and Dean looked at each other curiously. Even if they didn't acquiesced, they both agreed with their friend. They went to the hospital without putting heads together and without talking. But once in the lobby, they didn't really have the courage or determination to climb up to the floor where John was hospitalized.

"What are we going to say?" Sam asked, pulling his brother's sleeve to the hospital cafeteria. There at least they could sit in front of a coffee that they wouldn't drink and then talk about the problems they had been putting aside for some days.

Dean shrugged. "You really wanna say something to him?"

Sam sighed. "I don't know. He's still our father, but I want as much to be there for him as I want to hit him with his own car."

Dean smirked. "I see what you mean."

"Does that make us horrible men if we let him snuff it in his shit heap?"

"First, he won't snuff it, secondly, he abandoned us and disavowed us in first."

"Is that a reason to behave like him?"

Dean seemed to have been brought several years back when Sam asked him all the existential questions that came into his mind and that he made it his duty to answer each time. Sam had never really lost the habit of turning to his brother when he asked a question to himself and Dean had never lost the habit of answering him as honestly as possible.

"No. I guess no."

They drank their coffee in the constant hubbub of the cafeteria. Dean was stirring the bottom of his, too sweet, too black for him to want to swallow it, letting his mind wander as far away from the smell of food and detergent.

"Cas's going to leave me."

The words were out on their own as if they had desires of freedom. Sam threw him a curious glance.

"What makes you think that?"

"The circumstances." Dean had looked up to meet the concerned eyes of his brother. "Would you stay? Would you stay if you had to hide your relationship? If you had to leave in the constant fear that someone might harm you? You'd stay?"

Sam thought of Madison. He thought of her tears and her panic in front of the messages of hate addressed to her. He thought of the precautions he took to touch her, to caress her without ever scaring her, to whisper sweet words to her without blurting out love words when they were together.

"Probably not." He eventually said. He didn't want to admit to himself, even in thought, that in saying this, he thought of Madison more than himself, and he basically understood and shared Dean's anxiety. "But Castiel loves you. There's not much in the world that I'm sure of, but this, no doubt about it. Even if he's afraid, he'll stay even though." Sam threw their cups into the garbage can and handed his jacket to his brother. "You're his hero. He won't leave you."

"I don't feel too much of a hero right now." Dean said as they entered the elevator.

"Me neither."

The meeting didn't go well. They had hoped, without really believing it, but even confined to a hospital bed, John still had that look that accused them of failing to comply with his expectations. The same look that had followed Sam out of the house the day he had left for Stanford, the same look that had led Dean to enter the army just to erase it. The look that had greeted him two years later, and after Josh's 'accident'.

"Are you the one who ordered what happened to Castiel?" Dean asked just after the usual greetings which they only complied to by habit.

John stared at him calmly, without a trace of smile. "This is what happen to people like him."

Sam clenched his fists. "That's what happen to people like him who stand up to people like you!" He corrected.

This time John's gaze became cold when he turned to his younger. "Absolutely Sam, and you'd better remember it, I'm still your father!"

"A very bad example of father." The drummer grouched.

They were only there for five minutes and already the tension in the room made the air unbreathable. Dean realized that he was already holding his breath and had unconsciously identified the location of the emergency call button in case Sam would throw himself on their father.

"What did I mess with you two?" John sighed. "Where did my education fail to make... that of you?"

"You don't even have the words to describe what we are." Sam said, almost amused. "You know why we called our band '_Free Will_'? Because it's a thing we did together, without you, without your consent. We did without so far, and we'll still do without."

John frowned. "Don't try to make me look like the villain of the story Sammy. You abandoned your family first!"

"No." Dean said in a firm tone, holding a hand to his brother who had taken a step forward, fists clenched, eyes full of rage. "No dad. You abandoned us before. There was a time when you were a father, but it's been a long time since you aren't anymore. Maybe even since Mom died."

"Don't bring your mother in there!"

"Why? That's what you usually do! "Your mother wouldn't have wanted this for you!" that's how you made us obey all our lives. That's how I left the army thinking that you'd be proud of me, that she would be proud of me, and that's how you pushed Sam out of the house." Dean leaned over the bed, his teeth clenched. "A father would have responded to our calls after the death of Jess, a father would be proud of who we are now!"

"There's nothing to be proud of!" John snapped, sitting up on his bed, ignoring the pain that it caused to him. "You aren't able to be useful to society, even your so-called freedom is only a headlong rush because neither of you is able to finish what he started!" He pointed an accusing finger at Sam. "You wanted to be a lawyer and this is what you've become! And you..."

Dean suddenly had the urge to disappear under the eyes of his father. "You would have been a good soldier, a man of merit, and you had to give up everything because you couldn't repress your likings!"

For half a second, Dean wondered if someone wasn't going to die as everything around them fell into a frozen silence. Then Sam started laughing. Not a happy laugh, just the spontaneous and inappropriate expression of his state of tension. But the laughter of Sam, even sad, even sarcastic was something that Dean had always loved, something he had always sought even when himself felt like crying. It dated back to childhood and it hadn't faded.

Suddenly the laughter put things into perspective. For a brief moment he saw their lives as if he were an external character and thought of Kevin. Kevin who would have probably sighed and rolled his eyes by listening totheir argument. Kevin who was so afraid of the judgment of his mother that he had almost hidden his lifestyle and had finally discovered how the heart of a mother could be loving and compassionate. One thing the Winchesters were deprived of. But Kevin would have observed the scene as Dean was currently doing. He would have seen a stubborn father sincerely convinced he had done his best facing two even more stubborn sons sincerely persuaded to be within their rights. One of them was in a hospital bed, probably deprived of his legs and alone. The other two had everything you could wish including some difficulties to make their life more tasty.

Dean straightened up, reached out a hand to his brother to rest on his shoulder and squeeze it gently. It was a contact that often calmed him even if this time the effect was less distinct than he had desired.

"The way I make love disgusts you, I got it." He said in the calmest tone he has employed for all the discussion. "But you never realized that the only thing that should matter to you is that I'm in love. You're my father and I love you no matter what happens. But I act like a good son while since my return from the army all you've done is trying to make me give in to your will. I should be as important to you as you are to me. I shouldn't be here to tell you that I'll never apologize to be who I am again. I know I'm a disappointment but you too!" Dean gently pushed Sam to the door, the look of their father followed him until he turned one last time. "And if you ever try to hurt Castiel again, just remember that I also was trained to hurt without hurting myself."

After the stifling atmosphere of John's room, the outside air seemed to them pure and pleasantly cool even if it was saturated of engine noise in the parking lot and the remote sound of an ambulance. Sam took a deep breath before exhaling a long time as to reject far away possible from him the tension of the last half hour. He realized that his hands were shaking when he reached for his pack of cigarettes in his pocket and dropped it twice before managing to bring one to his lips.

"And now what do we do?"

Dean shrugged. "As usual, we make it up as we go."

Sam smiled to a doctor who sent him a disapproving look as he struggled against his lighter to light the cigarette.

##

Castiel had planned to go to a doctor. His steps painfully brought him almost to the office of the practitioner. He forced himself not to see the glances of mercy that bystanders cast to his swollen face. The sunglasses behind which he was hiding a black eye unpleasantly weighed on his nose. There was a church in a street corner, its function was only indicated by the large white cross that flanked the door and caught his eye. The afternoon sun was beating down on it, almost blinding. Castiel believed in signs and without without second-guessing himself he entered. The low building, square, made of concrete was nothing like what for him were the churches.

He remembered his childhood in Illinois, the parish where his mother was actively involved after the discovery of his leukemia had a wooden church which, during winter, smelled of sap and snow. He remembered the Masses which he was forced to attend and all the prayers for his recovery that had been sung there.

This church had nothing in common with the one of his childhood. It was new, still smelled painting. The benches were new, the prie-dieu not yet polished by thousands of knees. There were printed sheets forgotten here and there since the last Service, creased and folded, sometimes crumpled and abandoned on benches. The back of the church that couldn't decently be called a nave was decorated with icons painted to imitate graffiti, vain attempt, the young man thought to himself, to attract more young people to church. A large cross, dark wood color, supported a stone christ behind the priest's desk. A slight odor of incense came to him when he closed the door behind him and the room was plunged into a ceremonious darkness dimly lit by a few tapers that were burning quietly. By reflex he made a sign of the cross, saving himself the genuflection before the crucifix and sat on a bench without really knowing what he was doing here.

The deserted churches calmed him and he had often sought refuge from his parents in those of their neighborhoods in Pontiac. Back then the priest looked at him with a pity which he hated but pretended not to see him slip behind the confessional to hide. The priest of this church wasn't so sensitive and advanced towards him in the soft rustling of his robes. When he was close enough to examine his face, Castiel saw the surprise and embarrassment materialize on it. The priest had probably not expected to see a disfigured face that afternoon.

"What happened to you?" He asked. He seemed genuinely curious and Castiel was grateful for him not finishing his sentence with "my child".

"I was assaulted in the street."

The priest nodded slowly while scrutinizing him. "You're troubled." He said as if stating a fact which could be read on the bruises of Castiel. The young man shrugged. "What happened?" the priest asked again, sitting beside him on the bench. He took care to maintain proper distance between them and Castiel wondered for a moment if he had received orders concerning promiscuity with his flocks? He hesitated to answer. Back there, in Pontiac, Illinois, people were not particularly open-minded to homosexuals even at the time when Castiel didn't define himself as such. But it was California here, and he was no longer a teenager.

"Apparently the father of my companion doesn't approve our relationship."

The priest nodded slowly while Castiel continued his monologue, looking at the crucifix without seeing it. "He surely thinks that by scaring me enough that will get me away from him."

"Is he right?"

Castiel looked down at his grazed hands, talking was still irritating the crack of his lips, squinting eyes was still painful despite the pills.

"Certainly." He answered honestly. "I'm not scared for myself. But to imagine that it could happen to him is unbearable. I'd rather die of loneliness than seeing him in this state."

"You truly love him." The priest said with a slight smile.

"Of course!" It was a ridiculous remark in the eyes of Castiel. Of course he loved Dean, probably more than his own life, probably because he owed him his life. "Is that a problem for you?"

The priest shook his head. "I'm more of a old school type, but God taught me one thing: love is never a sin."

"You wouldn't say that if I told you he is a minor."

The priest was silent for a long moment, clearly seeking to know whether Castiel was messing with him or not. The young man kept his face perfectly impassive.

"This may not matter. This child will be twenty-one some day. By then neither God nor I have a say in this as long as you don't hurt him."

Castiel nodded. The priest got up to leave and he called him out before he entrench himself in his office: "He is adult and consenting."

"Praise be to God." There was like an amusement in the voice of the clergyman that made Castiel smile. The church was fresh and he lingered there a little, daydreaming. He tried to imagine his life without Dean and he only saw a depressing and miserable picture. To change, he tried to imagine Dean's life without him.

Nothing came to his mind. Not that he was unable to think like his lover. No, over time, he was perfectly able to put himself in his place. Able enough anyway to realize the void that his absence would cause in the life of Dean.

"_Neither God nor I have a say in this as long as you don't hurt him_."

Few people have the chance to love, and Castiel was very aware of being a rare case. It was probably self-sufficiency but nothing in the world could convince him that Dean didn't love him. Nothing could convince him that losing him wouldn't break the heart of the singer. He smiled for himself, standing up. He didn't go to the doctor. He had more important things to do.

##

"What's wrong?" Madison asked straight away after opening the door to Sam. He was standing, leaning against the doorframe until she open her arms to invite him to enter and he came to nest there with a sigh, strangely leaned toward her to compensate for their difference of height. "Waht's wrong?" She repeated, pushing the door with the fingertips before starting to stroke his hair mechanically.

"My father got Castiel roughed up."

Madison knew, he had sent her a text the day before about this, then another in the day to reassure her about the state of their friend. But he had red eyes and she couldn't tell if it was because he had been crying or drinking. He still had his head on her shoulder and his arms wrapped around her as if she were a reassuring plush and reflexively she hugged him against her even if the position was uncomfortable for both.

"He loves us just enough to try to destroy what bothers him in our lives." He said after she had dragged him to the sofa and placed a warm drink in front of him. He genuinely didn't care what was in his hands and didn't dip his lips into it. He just appreciated its heat through the porcelain cup. He ran a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, I show up without having been invited but... I really need someone who loves me right now, or just a friend."

She put an arm around his shoulders and hugged him briefly with a smile. "Just keep to someone who loves you." She said softly. She didn't even try to hold her words back.

It was as if she suddenly gave him permission to fall apart against her and let flow out of him all he held for several days, the cooling the cup in his hands as he spoke of Castiel, John , the ultimatum of Crowley...

"I tried to write. All afternoon I tried and nothing came." He grumbled. Not a single line had come to him and the notebook page had taunted himhour after hour, sending him back to obsessive thoughts that he couldn't even sublimate to overcome them. As he spoke he had slipped in the arms of Madison and now was head resting against her chest, the sound of her steady breathing was something hypnotic and for a moment neither talked.

"I feel like we're screwed, whatever we do." He sighed. "I'd just want to be sure that the story will end well."

Madison had passed a hand under his shirt, her cold fingers rested on the head of the phoenix that he had tattooed on the ribs. It had been the most painful part of the tattoo and he found himself regretting that at the time no one has laid a cool hand on it to relieve him. It didn't have importance now but he was tired and unhappy for reasons he didn't try to explain to himself, and it didn't seem to bother her to listen him complain. She had seated more comfortably on the couch and bent her head to kiss him on the top of the skull.

"If you let me reach the remote control we can watch cartoons. That, at least, always ends well."

"We'd better make love."

"One doesn't cancel the other out."

He looked up at her, but she seemed quite serious. He smiled despite himself. "You have no respect for anything and I'm shocked!" He mumbled, drawing himself up on one elbow to look her in the eyes.

It was the turn of Madison to laugh. "That's why you love me."

For half a second he said nothing then he nodded and leaned forward to kiss her on the lips. "Exactly."


	20. Chapter 20 : Blank Page

**Warnings: **Swearing, language, mention of homophobic violence, mention of past domestic abuse, physical violence (in the last part).

* * *

**Chapter 20: **Blank Page

Dean had delayed as much as possible his return home. Delayed as much as possible the moment he would put the key in the lock and enter an empty apartment, probably to find a note from Castiel explaining why he had left. It had already happened once and even if their break up, at that time had lasted less than three days, he didn't keep a good memory of it. He was tired, anxious, tense and the mere prospect of having to fight to convince Castiel not to abandon him was enough to make him want to lean against the wall and spend the night in a deep denial of the external world.

Open the door and smell a burning odor shouldn't have been such a relief. But it meant that Castiel, for some reason Dean couldn't explain, was here. With his face still swollen that he should refrain from kissing full on the mouth, with a t-shirt with long sleeves too warm for the season, with jeans too large that slipped on his hips. There he was, a steaming pan in hand, with the very bored look he always had when he didn't understand something, his blue eyes were red from the smoke when he looked up to Dean. The singer still had his keys in his hand and on the face the outline of a smile.

"I think I burned the steaks." Castiel said, and Dean burst into laughter. He felt like he hadn't laughed for a long time and he had to hold on to the wall to stay upright. "This isn't funny, Dean!" The other grumbled. "I wanted to make burgers!"

Although it wasn't funny, Dean was still laughing when he approached him and took the pan from his hand before placing a soft kiss on his lips. He put the item on the stove and turned off the burner before turning back to his companion to hold him in his arms, forgetting for a moment that the slightest touch could be painful, hence the oversized clothes. Castiel hugged him back, holding back a groan. For a minute they didn't move, each nose buried deep in the neck of the other, soaking up with the familiar smells, before the smoke make them cough.

"Why are you still here?" Dean asked softly, a hand still wrapped around the neck of Castiel.

The latter smiled softly, looking a little confused. "You thought I was going to leave?"

Dean nodded. "Because of this..." He said, brushing the still bruised brow of the young man. "I couldn't blame you if you decided to... get away until things subside."

"It crossed my mind." Castiel confessed. "But only because the idea that it happens to you gives me murderous thoughts."

His hand was on the wrist of Dean now, his thumb stroking the thorns of the rose that wrapped around it. Dean could feel his hair slowly raise at that touch. Years after it was amazing to see how the slightest caress could still do the same effect as the first time, how it was enough to bring back memories of them behind the bars, glued to each other against a dirty wall, kissing as if it were the most important thing of the earth. It still was in fact, but embedded in the mass of their other problems, they tended to forget it.

"And you're still here?" Dean asked again.

"I'm still here." Castiel answered, approaching to kiss him gently again. "Because I know how much it would hurt me to leave you, and I don't want to inflict that kind of pain to you." He paused a moment to look at his lover. "Few people have the chance to truly love. Even fewer are those who know they are loved, and I have this luck."

It happened rarely, but occasionally, Dean felt like his heart became a big balloon full of tenderness and began to make leaps in his chest. It was exactly the feeling he had when anew pressing Castiel against himself to kiss him again, until neither one nor the other have breath anymore and had to part of a few centimeters, just enough that he still feel his lover's lips move against his own as he whispered: "Some things are worth fighting for, aren't they?"

Suddenly, Dean took a decision and dragged him as much as he pushed him towards the door and into a taxi despite the protests of the accountant.

"But my burgers!"

"We'll stop to eat somewhere, yours were already screwed."

Castiel grunted but said nothing, he didn't even ask where they were going. One way or another he would find out soon enough and he liked the feeling of unknown and imminent surprise he had in the pit of his stomach. They didn't talk about Dean's visit at the hospital, nor the fact that Castiel had obviously not gone to the doctor and winded up a few minutes later in the shop of their appointed tattooer. Rufus knew them well by dint, as he knew all his customers and he grumbled after Dean for not having made an appointment.

"Not coz you're a so-called rock star..." He mumbled while washing his hands.

"C'mon Rufus it'll take you half an hour watch in hand!"

The tattoo artist rolled his eyes and motioned for Dean to settle. Castiel had his eyes fixed on the tip of the dermograph that he couldn't even see moving while the calm and steady hand of Rufus stretched the skin of the inside of Dean's arm to slowly draw the letters and ink them correctly.

"A particular reason for the location?" He asked.

"Yep. But only he can understand." Dean answered, pointing Castiel with his thumb. Castiel actually didn't understand, but he said nothing.

An hour later, Dean had kept his promise and had bought burgers on the way which they had eaten seated at table in the apartment of the Winchester. Two hours later, Castiel was lying in Dean's bed and the singer Dean handed him a pill and a glass of water that he refused, shaking his head.

"It makes me have nightmares."

Dean placed glass and medicine on the bedside table and slipped under the sheets, his presence was familiar and comforting, away from the jolt Castiel had had when undressing to shower. His torso, hips, arms had taken a green and purplish hue in places, he had been surprised that the jet of hot water doesn't actually hurt him. He looked like a painting stained by rain.

"What kind of nightmares?" Dean asked very softly, one hand already in the wet hair of his companion.

"I don't remember." Castiel turned on his side carefully to be able to watch him. The light was still on, but the day had been long and Dean had eyes heavy with fatigue under his long lashes, he seemed already almost in a dream. "But you were not here, and that's what woke me up. I was afraid you really were gone." The hand in his hair tensed gently, pulling him to Dean for a long kiss which would have ended less quickly if the position hadn't been so uncomfortable for Castiel. The other pushed him gently into his pillow until he was again lying on his back, his lover astride over him. Castiel winced apologetically while Dean leaned over him to kiss him again.

"I can't do anything tonight."

"I know. For once we'll do it my way."

Castiel smiled. "You say that like I subdue you."

"Not at all." The singer smiled as he passed a hand under the elastic of Castiel's sweatpants. "On the contrary, I love what we usually do." A kiss, a caress. "But this time sweetheart, you won't prevent me from taking all the time in the world."

"Don't call me like that." Castiel grouched.

"Oh yes. This time, just this time you won't stop me to do that either." Dean responded. He had gently pulled up the t-shirt on the belly of his lover and was laying light kisses where the skin was still intact. "Because that's what you are, the heart that makes me live, the love that supports me, the being that I cherish most in the world." He raised his head to look at Castiel. "Please."

The young man sat up enough that their faces are very close to each other. "You have no idea how much I love you." He whispered. He ran a hand on Dean's cheek, his thumb brushed the piercing on his lip for a while before he kiss him again. Then, contrary to his habits, he let his lover do what he wanted, half-undress him, caress him so long, so softly that he barely felt his hands on his skin. He barely felt his breath accelerate while Dean took care of him, they didn't produce many other sounds than the rustle of sheets, the slip of their skins against each other and one or two casual sighs. Castiel would have liked to return the favor, to also immerse his lover gradually into a torpor of pleasure and well-being, just with caresses and whispers of love. He knew himself to be incapable of doing so, too impatient to take -like Dean- the time to make him come without a single muscle in his body seem to contract. It was deep night when Dean pulled the sheets up on them with a satisfied smile.

"But you?" Castiel asked lazily by chancing a hand to the crotch of his companion. Dean kissed him, his tongue tasted like sweat.

"'T's okay. I don't need more."

"Want, maybe?"

Dean shook his head, he settled comfortably next to Castiel. He knew the location of each of his bruises by dint of having circumvented, surrounded them by kisses and caresses. That night and for the next few others, he couldn't sleep head against the ribs of Castiel, arm across his hips but he would simply mold himself by his side, forehead resting against his shoulder, one arm between them and their fingers intertwined.

"Just that, that's fine." He sighed. He felt really good. A strange mix of exhaustion, relief and satisfaction. His freshly tattooed arm hurt him a little and would soon begin to itch, but he smiled, thinking of the tattoo.

Castiel was already falling asleep despite the absence of the weight of Dean's arm on his stomach or the tickling of the singer's short hair on his chest. And suddenly he understood the location of the tattoo. Inside the arm that Dean passed over him to sleep, mirroring the tattoo he had himself on the hip. "_Worth fighting for_." He fell asleep before he found the courage to turn to kiss him one last time, but he pressed Dean's hand a little tighter.

##

When Sam found his brother in the living room the next morning, this one was turning keys in his hand for an hour already, waiting for a sign or indication of what to do.

"That's the keys of dad's car." He said, handing it to his brother. Sam took them, puzzled.

"Why are you givin' them to me?"

"The hospital called this morning, Dad wanted us to have them. They confirmed that he wouldn't walk again."

Sam sat next to Dean on the couch, turning the keys between his fingers. They were all warm from the hand of his brother.

"I should feel bad." He started slowly. "If if we hadn't argued that night he wouldn't be there."

"That wasn't your fault."

"I know. This is the problem... I don't actually feel guilty, or feel pity. I feel bad, but that's only because I don't feel bad for him." Sam sincerely hoped his brother would understand his babbling because he couldn't even put words on his feelings. He remembered the shock, his blood turning to ice when hearing the news of the accident, how the news had shaken him to the point that he snub Madison. Then the sensation had faded, vanished in a strange relief and now the only thing he thought when learning the disability of his father was "well done". That was wrong. That was not how a son should react, but he couldn't feel anything other than relief.

"What do we do of the car?"

Sam gave him the keys with a shrug. "It's only a heap of junk, sell what you can, and make a small cube of the rest so we don't talk about it anymore."

Dean frowned. "This car is almost dad's entire life."

"Yeah. This is the life of the one who told me all mine that I wasn't worthy enough and I didn't have the right to live the way I wanted. Make a little cube of it, seems like a good compensation."

Dean lowered his head on his hands clasped around the keys. "How did we get there Sammy? Don't you think we may also be at fault in this? It takes two to make an argument, right?"

Sam bit his lips a moment before shaking his head. "Maybe I'm at fault. But you? You tried to comply to his demands for years and it didn't prevent him to despise you even more than me."

"He has different opinions from mine but is this a reason to let him die by himself?"

"Are you fucking kidding me? You're going back into that room and you'll watch the face of your man and then we'll talk about letting him die by himself or not."

Dean clenched his fingers around the keys in a flash of anger and nodded slowly. Yet this very afternoon, he was in front of the garage that had retrieved his father's car, the keys still clenched in his hand and the silent presence of Dorothy beside him.

"I don't get why you asked me to come?" She said while they were led to where the wreck was parked. Dean shrugged.

"You have a better knowledge in cars than me."

"If you're to make a can of it, I don't see the point."

From the right side, the car seemed in good condition. The left side was only a twisted scrap heap where Dean was sure he could still find some John's blood. The door had been torn off to extract him and was lying on the ground in the dust. The framework still smelled of burned tires.

Dean looked at it for a moment before sliding on the seat which was twisted at an odd angle and the dashboard which had been slightly staved in. There was no more windshield. The passenger side door creaked when Dorothy opened it and sat next to him.

"It's shady." She commented.

"It's all that remains of the life of my father."

"Don't dramatize, he's not dead." Dorothy grumbled.

"He loved that car and he'll never be able to drive it again. It's a bit like I didn't do music anymore." Dean replied thoughtfully. The windshield was dirty from the accident and he resisted the urge to lean to clean it with his fingertips. "Do we have the right to throw on scrapheap one of the favorite things of a human being just because it means nothing to us?"

Dorothy didn't answer, it was one of those moments of personal reflection where any intervention was unnecessary. She just looked at him furtively, waiting for him to untie the thread of his thought.

"I lost my virginity in the back of this car." Dean spoke again. "I guess it should count in the equation. That and all the times Sam fell asleep against me in the backseat. The first time I was allowed to sit up front. We almost grew up under this roof." He turned to her. "Do you think we can fix it?"

She examined more carefully the state of the car, the dented roof, the hood almost ripped off, the steering column that she thought was good for change. "It would cost more than to buy a new one."

"But is it possible?"

Doothy sighed. "Yes, it is. But I don't get why you'd want to keep it? What does it mean to you?"

"A reminder." Dean said after a moment of silence. "A reminder that you cannot blame someone for something this person didn't choose."

"I don't follow you."

Dean put his hands on the steering wheel, turning it slightly as if he was negotiating a bend on an invisible road. "My father is old school, he likes old records, old cars, and has values that I consider invalid. But he didn't choose that. He didn't choose what he considers as normal like I didn't choose to be abnormal in his eyes."

Dorothy frowned, puzzled.

"You don't ge to choose what you are Dorothy. I didn't choose to love Cas, or to be tall or to adore my brother. And my father didn't choose to be the way he is. We shouldn't blame people for things they can't choose."

"Whether we choose or not, it's our actions that define us." She retorted. "We can blame him for the way he treated you and still treats you. He got Cas beaten up for God's sake! There are things I don't approve and yet I don't try to destroy them!"

Dean pursed his lips, nodding. "I'm not excusing his actions. Or him for that matter. He judges me, based on what I do and with whom I do it without trying to understand who I am deep down. And I don't want to make the same mistake."

"What makes you better is that you have the will to understand him, whereas he doesn't care and I think that everything related to him should end up in the bottom of a very deep hole." She grumbled, crossing her arms.

Dean smiled. "I don't think so. There's a margin between what you are and what you do and it's this margin that defines you more than anything else. You are less defined by your feelings for Charlie or your fierce determination to ignore it than by the gray area between the two."

Dorothy shot him a surprised and dirty look to which he responded with a smile. "I'm more observant than I look. I know how it is disturbing. I know what it's like to have believed your whole life to be somebody and finding out one day that you were mistakening on yourself."

"I wasn't mistakening. I know who I am and what I am. I am someone who refuses to be defined only by the person with whom I sleep. All these labels, hetero, gay, bi... I refuse to have one cause after it forbids you to change. I want the choice, and I want the freedom to fight against something that I don't like."

"See? Exactly what I said. Your convictions or your actions define you less than the leeway that you allow yourself between them."

Dorothy didn't reply, locked in a sulky silence.

"You think your will alone would be enough to change your attractions? Looks like you think you can cure yourself of something that isn't a disease." Dean sighed, leaning his elbow on the door that creaked.

Dorothy shrugged. "I'm just saying I want to be able to choose who I love."

"I don't think that's possible." Dean said softly. "If it were I would have fallen in love with someone other than Cas. Ideally a nice and pretty girl not too troublesome." Dorothy let out a snort that Dean ignored. "But it had to be him. And however I tried it changed nothing. Whatever name you put on it. It's him I want to hold in my arms when things go wrong, I retain silly details about him, I'm scared for him and I'm scared I'll never see him again. It would be easier if he was someone my father and society accepts, but it had to be him. And to be honest, I wouldn't wish someone else."

The subject seemed closed for several minutes when Dorothy didn't answer.

"I didn't choose. People you find attractive, those you love, you have no choice, you just find out that it's like that and you have to make do. It's been hard for me to admit it, so I guess for my father it's almost impossible, and I'm not better than him if I feel entitled to blame him for it. So I'ma keep the car. I'll keep it to remind myself to be tolerant, even with what I don't understand." He ran his hand distractedly on the dashboard. "Yeah, I'm keepin' it."

In the taxi that brought them back to the city, Dorothy was looking through the window the buildings passing, thinking back to what Dean had said.

"I retain stupid things about her. And sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I didn't see her anymore." She said softly halfway through. Dean nodded on the other side of the seat. "Yet I'm hetero."

"So what? It's just a label you chose before knowing that you didn't want a label. What does that change?"

"Everything."

"No it doesn't. It changes the way you define yourself, how people will perceive you. But it doesn't change who you are."

Dorothy smiled. "That's what Sam told to Madison about his tattoos."

"For once he knows what he's talking about, and he's right." Dean assented.

"How was it, when you understood for Castiel?"

"Frightening." Dean answered immediately. "And just after, it was liberating. Cause I thought I was someone else and I realized nothing had changed. I'm still me, I just know myself a bit better than before."

"You should make a song of it."

"Hell, I should make an album of it."

"I'd listen to that album."

Dean made a detour to the recording studio before returning home. He stood before the still blank board for ideas that taunted him the past few days, a marker in hand and stood on tip-toe to write the highest possible: "It doesn't change who we are."

After a time of reflection he erased a part of the sentence with the fat of the hand. "Who we are."

It was a first approach, a first inspiration that made him smile, a familiar feeling of excitement began to twist his belly and he smiled when leaving the studio, his phone to his ear.

"Cas? I have an idea... I have a common thread, and I'm going to need you on this one!"

##

Madison's apartment was nothing remarkable apart from its blond perfectly waxed wooden floor on which she had asked Sam to walk barefoot or in socks. His toes left small wet traces before disappearing when he crossed the room to join her in the kitchen. The yellow curtains gave a soft and warm atmosphere the room, barely disturbed by the distant echo of children playing in the pool on the other side of the street.

Sam found Madison's apartment incredibly calm and took refuge there for a week to escape the blank pages that he couldn't blacken and the time that flowed day after day, getting them closer to the fateful moment when they would have to submit Crowley a project for which they had no beginning. But for now, there were only Madison, sitting cross-legged on a chair in the kitchen, a cooling cup of tea beside her as she distractedly scrolled through job adverts on her computer.

"I think I found something." She said, pointing to one of the ads.

"I don't really want you to go."

"I don't really have a choice. And it's a three-week mission next month, I'll be back before you had time to miss me."

"I doubt that." He said with a smile. He pulled the cup to him and absentmindedly dipped his lips into it before rejecting it to Madison with a disgusted face.

"Did you find inspiration?" She asked, retrieving her drink.

He shook his head. He was sprawled on the table, chin between his folded arms and was squinting a little to look at her between the strands that fell before his eyes. "No." It was difficult to talk with the chin glued to the wood of the table. "I can't get anywhere. I feel like an unplugged printer."

Madison giggled and got up to move her arms around the neck of the drummer and lay a kiss on the top of his head.

"It'll come back." She promised. She seemed to believe it, not to just say that to comfort him. She had slipped a hand under the sleeve of his shirt to cover with her fingers the sunflower tattoo on his shoulder, and with the other she touched the lotus on his arm. "You're the one who taught me that one way or another things always get better." She murmured into his ear, pressing him against her. He smiled and squeezed her hand into his.

"You know why I love you?" Sam smiled.

"Surprise me."

"Cause you're the most positive person I know!"

She winced against his neck and he felt her eyelashes tickle him when she closed her eyes. She was rocking him gently, him still sprawled on the table, her still behind him, her arms passed around his shoulders.

"We've both been through much worse situations than this one. And we got back on our feet again. It's easy to be positive when you're sure that there's a happy ending that awaits us somewhere."

"You think we'll have a happy ending?"

"I hope so. And waiting for inspiration, take me to the movies, or anywhere. I want to make the most of you before leaving."

##

The little phrase on the board taunted Sam. It watched him toil in his notebook without finding any line to write and seemed to mock him. He saw the days pass without anything progressing and inactivity weighed on him in addition to worry him. A week had already passed and Crowley wouldn't give them extra time for lack of inspiration. But all he had written so far was worthless, and when he sat behind his drums, only mediocre and uninteresting rhythms came to him. Well might they ganged up, it didn't change anything. The only song they had in stock was "_Sunflower_" and they had agreed to keep it to themselves. They were up shit creek and the little phrase that Dean had written on the board kept reminding him of that.

The day before, a man had followed them down the street and he knew that Madison had noticed too, the man wasn't a journalist and Sam had noticed the tension in the shoulders of Madison though she hadn't talked about it. He put his drumsticks on their support with a grunt and stretched. On the other side of the glass, Kevin gave him a curious look, and Sam shrugged.

"I hope you're doin' better than me."

The young man shook his head. "Sincerely not... how do you want me to compose anything? I have no lyrics to cling to, not even the guideline of what we want to do with this album... We're screwed man."

"Let's keep a little optimism here!" Charlie grunted, looking up from her bass on which she was softly suffusing futile chords.

Kevin winced. "You know that when you're reduced to quote Star Wars it's means we really are in deep shit?"

"I always quote Star wars!"

"Yeah well, we're kinda always in shit." Sam muttered.

Nothing came to contradict this statement throughout the day, leaving them all frustrated and annoyed when they parted. Dean would sleep at Castiel's again tonight, and Sam with Madison. On the way back he seemed to drag his frame against the tide, and he hated it.

The strange guy was still there, smoking a cigarette on the sidewalk, apparently waiting for a taxi. Sam didn't pay much attention to it and pressed the intercom for Madison to open to him. She hadn't changed from her tracksuit, a sign that she hadn't been out of the day. He bent to kiss her on the doorstep without this actually light up his mood, it was nice anyway.

"Productive day?" Madison asked, resettling behind the screen of the computer she had just left.

"Apparently as much as yours."

"Hey! Everyone is entitled to a day of pure laziness once from time to time."

"The problem is that we'd like to work and we're getting nowhere." Sam grumbled, wallowing in the sofa facing the TV off. "By the way, there's a guy outside since yesterday, one of your neighbors?"

Madison didn't answer. Sam looked up at her and saw that she had her head bent over her screen, clearly ignoring him. "Mads?"

"That's Kurt." She mumbled.

"Kurt... as in your ex Kurt?"

She nodded, eyes still glued to the screen. Sam jumped to his feet without really knowing what he intended to do and headed for the door.

"Sam! No! That's my problem, let me handle it."

"I just want to talk to him!"

"And I don't want you to talk to him." She protested, rising in turn. "I don't want to get you into trouble, he did nothing wrong, he's just… here, that's all."

"And you don't find that weird?" Sam grunted. He needed to take it out on something and Kurt seemed a good candidate. He realized his had clenched his fists and his chest was contracted. Madison was looking at him, obviously concerned, one hand on his arm as if trying to calm a frightened animal.

"Let me handle it, that's all I ask." She said softly.

He exhaled loudly, forcing himself to regain his senses before looking her in the eyes. "You'd tell me if there was a problem, right?"

Madison smiled. "So you can play the hero? No way! I'm the heroine of the story, big guy!"

"You could make an effort!" He smiled. The knot in his chest was slowly dissolving.

"I make lots of effort Winchester! I just ordered our dinner online and I have a couple of ideas on how to occupy ourselves until it arrives." She said by surrounding him with her arms, chin up to look him in the eye. "Take care of your problems, I handle mine."

"Fine." He said, bending to kiss her. It required more discipline than he had to completely wipe Kurt of his mind, but he pushed him away in a dark corner of his mind and decided not to evoke him again.

The delivery of the the dinner found them in an outfit that didn't allow them to open the door and for a brief moment they both considered to go and open naked before Sam decide to put on an underwear to be half-decent. Obviously it was not enough for the deliveryman who winked at him before leaving.

"I think your deliveryman hit on me."

"Like everyone." Madison commented from the couch. Sam dropped the boxes on the table and joined her, determined to pick up where they had been interrupted but she stopped him with a finger on his thigh.

"You never told me about this one." She said, pressing her fingernail on one of his tattoos. Three words aligned one above the other inside of her thigh, where almost no one saw them, and no one usualy asked him any question. He grinned.

"I thought it was quite explicit." He said, leaning over her. She shook her head.

"Not really. It can mean many things and I want the true meaning." She said, following the words inked under his skin with her thumb. "_Never let go_"

Sam strangely wriggled his hips to attract her against him and simultaneously lie on the couch.

"It's Dean who says that about me. That I can't let things pass. That I cling to it with all my strength as long as there is hope."

"Hope for what?"

He shrugged. "Depends what we're talking about. But generally, a hope for everything to end well. He thinks it's a criticism, I think he's right and that there's nothing wrong with never let go, never give up as long as you can fight a little." He was thoughtfully stroking her shoulders, his mind elsewhere. "He told me that when Jess died. And then when we had a hard time with our music. I never let go of anything even when I know it's too late."

"It's encouraging then." She said quietly. She laid a kiss on the hollow of his neck, another under his collarbone. "It means that this album you'll successfully get it done by one way or another."

"You can see it like that."

"Believe in the positive half of this couple, you can do it."

##

"You take advices for our relationship from Dean?" Charlie laughed. Dorothy had just told her the conversation she had had with their friend a few days earlier.

"Not really, and it's not funny Charlie, you know it's hard for me."

"It doesn't have to be."

They were sitting down to table around a huge salad at the bassist's. Dorothy had expected almost every settings but not the strange purple and orange fantasy she had before her eyes. She was still struggling to get used to it and daily joked about her risk of seizures through being surrounded by these garish colors. Charlie shrugged answering it put her in a good mood. And they needed a good mood now.

Dorothy had found a new convoy to drive across the country and the days together were limited.

"But it is." She replied by stirring the salad on her plate from the end of her fork. "I can't wake up one morning and realize that I love a girl. A famous one moreover. I talked to Dean because you don't seem to realize in what mess we'll sink!"

Charlie frowned. "If you're alluding to what Crowley said..."

"I'm alluding to it, absolutely." Dorothy lost her temper. "Castiel is right not to want to expose Dean and I don't necessarily want to expose myself either."

Charlie looked offended. "You have no reason to be ashamed of me!"

"I'm not ashamed of you. But I had other life projects before I met you, which didn't involve girls, projects to which it's not easy to give up on like that."

"I don't ask anything from you." Charlie said quietly.

"Shame."

"Why?"

"Because if you wanted to force me to anything, it would be easier to leave you in due time."

Charlie's face had gradually fallen during the discussion and she crossed her arms, her plate still half full forgotten before her.

"You're still on that?"

"Of course I still am! You expect me to throw myself into this relationship when you know how much it scares me and worst of all, when I'm scared for you."

"Nothing's gonna happen to me!"

"Nothing happened, but it can change, it will. No one is safe anywhere Charlie, and I don't want to be responsible for what might happen." There was a moment of silence and Dorothy looked down at her plate, she had just ruined her appetite. "You know as well as I do that we live in a world that doesn't like when two girls live in an apartment that has only one bed."

"You're talkin' nonsense." Charlie mumble. A her tone, Dorothy didn't manage to determine if she was angry or unhappy, probably a little of both.

"Maybe, but I believe it." Dorothy said quietly. And the hardest thing to admit wasn't that the outside world might condemn their relationship, it was to realize how much she herself would have liked this relationship to be simple. Or just possible. Or just reassuring.

Realize how much she would have liked not having become attached so much to Charlie.

##

As the buses arriving in packets when you no longer expect them, the events precipitated in a few days.

Maybe nothing would have happened if they had managed to get somewhere in the studio, if Dorothy had hit the road later or if she hadn't found a pen in Charlie's apartment. Things would probably have been different if Kurt hadn't been again under Madison's windows a few days later. Or simply if he hadn't approached Madison.

She had turned with a vivacity that she probably wouldn't have had a few months earlier and had pushed his hand.

"I told you to leave me alone." She said. She had almost shoved Sam in her movement and he was now facing Kurt for the first time. He was a normal man, nor frankly threatening nor particularly interesting at first glance. He had the little bewildered look of people who don't expect the reaction they're facing.

"I just wanted to talk."

"We no longer have something to say to each other." Madison retorted, crossing her arms. She had taken a step backward and when Kurt streched his hand to her again, Sam grabbed his wrist. He was taller, stronger than Kurt and the wrist in his hand seemed tiny. He had a brief vision of his fingers gripping the pale skin and the deep certainty that with a twist he could break the joint. He dominated Kurt of his full height.

"She told you to leave her alone."

Kurt was either particularly brave or particularly stupid. Probably a bit of both because he stared Sam down like he was going to spit in his face.

"I wasn't talkin' to you pal."

If he had been less tired, less worked up, he would probably have been able to contain himself. But the first blow was struck before he could register anything and it did good to him. It wasn't so much about finally hitting Kurt that relieved him as releasing the accumulated tension in several weeks. He didn't stop at the first cry of Madison, nor when she tried to take his arm to move him away from Kurt. In fact, he might as well have hit on a sandbag seeing how the other wasn't really trying to resist him. Madison was screaming. "Sam! SAM STOP!"

Kurt had the face bloodied and hardly dared to moan in pain when Sam loosened his grip on his collar and slowly opened his swollen fist. Everything must had happened quickly because people were just starting to get their phones to alert the police. Madison was standing three feet from him with a face he had never seen her. A combination of rage, terror and stupor. She had teeth clenched behind her hands that were clutching her face as if she had been hiding her eyes during his outbreak of violence.

"Clear off." She snarled. A passerby looked at her, puzzled and she repeated her order, this time pushing Sam out of her way. "Clear off."

Sam took a step backward, shocked. "You're taking his side?"

"He's the one on the ground, right?" Madison retorted in a cold tone.

"But... Mads he's the bastard in this affair!" Sam stammered, straightening. Anger was slowly starting to prevail over the astonishment. He was the good guy of the story, right? It was Kurt who used to hit Madison before, not him. Why was she leaning over him when he did not deserve her pity?

She gave him a look devoid of compassion and love.

"And you're the one who feel entitled to hit him for that. You know what I think about that. So now you scram."

He stepped forward ready to plead his case, but she stopped him with a violent gesture of the hand. "I'm serious Sam. You get out of my life now or I'll call the cops."

Someone must have already done that because a siren was heard in the distance. The time gave the impression to Sam to have stopped long enough to print the angry face of Madison in his memory and his cold eyes. Just the time for him to realize what had just happened. He was very cold suddenly and strangely clear-headed and the only thing that came to him was how he had screwed up and a bunch of excuses that would have no impact on her. She had already leaned over Kurt to examine him and began to help him get up again. Sam turned away, onlookers parted to let him pass. When the ambulance arrived, he was already far away and Madison didn't give him a single look while he was walking away.


	21. Chapter 21 : The Girl Who Left

**Warnings: Swearing, language, slight physical violence, reference to past domestic abuse, implied drunkness, loss of memory due to drunkness, bad and heavy hangover, mention of past suicidal thoughts, mention of John Winchester and threatening behavior.**

* * *

**Chapter 21: **The girl who left

"But you chose me!" Kurt complained. He had just signed the hospital discharge papers, a bandage still on his nose and an arm in a splint until his dislocated shoulder recover. Madison gave him a cold look, eyeing him with her full height even if she was a head shorter than him.

"I didn't choose anyone." She replied. "I disagree with Sam's reaction, but don't think this excuses your own attitude!"

"It's all behind us now Maddy!"

"Don't call me Maddy."

They had reached the automatic doors of the main entrance when he took her by the waist.

"Come on, we're not gonna argue about that, how about a dinner?"

With a sudden movement she freed herself, furious. "What don't you understand in "I didn't choose you"?"

He had grabbed her by the hand, a serious look on his face. "And what do you think you can do alone?"

For a brief moment, Madison was frightened. He had said exactly the same words once or twice before and the memories that followed still woke her with a jump during the night. She expected to tremble, to look down, swallowing the lump she had in the throat. But none of this happened. Of course, she was scared, but the avoidance reflex she expected to have never came. She saw Sam and his unrestrained rage when he was beating him up. She felt disconnected from reality as her emotions did not fit with the picture and she smiled weakly.

"That's absolutely none of your business."

Kurt opened his mouth, pressing her wrist, but before he could say anything, he found himself with his arm painfully twisted in his back, doubled up in a position that was hurting his damaged shoulder and Madison bent over him, pulling his arm with all the force developed by dint of lifting crates. People were watching. Kurt knew he could free himself in one motion and give her tit for tat, but not in front of all those people, some of whom already cast anxious glances toward the security members who were advancing toward them.

"I said that was none of your business. And that I don't want to see you again. Now if you really want me to break you something, may as well do it right away while there's someone to take care of you." She said in a voice not as confident as she would have wanted. She was still pleased to have come to the end of her sentence without babbling.

"Miss... Miss please let him go."

The voice of the security member pulled her out of her daze and she slowly loosened her grip on Kurt's wrist before pulling away from him hurriedly. He turned, furious, teeth gritted.

"I'm gonna file a complaint against him, bitch, and also against you for assault and battery! I'll massacre you both!"

The security member beside Madison frowned.

"Sir, I ask you not to make inappropriate comments within the walls of this establishment, this is..."

Madison cut him off with a wave of the hand, her dark eyes fixed on Kurt, knowing full well that she was watched, that they were even filmed.

"So I'll see you in court." She replied dryly. There were a hundred things she would have wanted to say, spit all her fear and anxiety in the face of her former lover and yell, scream again and again while hitting him through breaking her nails. She didn't, she swallowed her anger.

She turned and left the first, full knowledge that Kurt wouldn't follow her.

In her pocket, her phone buzzed, making her jump in the parking lot. It was the first time since the incident between Sam and Kurt that someone phoned her.

"Dorothy?"

"Madison... I… I'm sorry, am I disturbing you?"

The girl closed her eyes and sighed, she began to tremble and the lump in her throat began to form.

"No." She said. "Not at all, I think you come at the right time actually. You wanted to talk about something?"

"I left her."

"Charlie?"

The silence on the line was eloquent. Madison sighed. "I left Sam."

Another pause on the line.

"If you want to talk, I know a quiet place in Venice."

Dorothy laughed a little. "A quiet place there? You sure?"

Madison smiled. "You game?"

She could almost hear the other nod at the other end. The knot in her throat untied a bit.

##

Sam walked the girl to the door, thinking it'd been a long time since he had last done that. Entrenched on the huge bed of the hotel room, Charlie was moaning incoherent words in a furry voice. Sam joined her grumbling her to shut up.

"Where are we? An' whaddappened?" She mumbled.

"I have no fucking clue and honestly I couldn't care less." He grunted. He collapsed as gently as possible in the empty spot next to her. His head was already spinning and he opened one eye to ensure the location of the bathroom because nausea threatened to overwhelm him at any time and Charlie seemed hardly better. Maybe an hour passed before they dare to speak or move, and Charlie crawled to the sink, convinced that she was going to throw up but her stomach refused to bring back up anything, perhaps because it was empty. She was paler than usual, almost green and fuzzy, the water she passed on her face didn't improve her situation. A migraine was pounding her brain insistently and she still didn't know where she was. A painful glance through the window didn't inform her. She was still half dressed which was probably a good thing. Sam had gotten up too, disheveled, he lacked at least two piercings and he had a brand new one to an ear that was still inflamed.

"We're in Vegas, Baby." He said with a semblance of a smile, pointing to a magnetic card left on the coffee table in the small suite. "And clearly I'm the one who chose the hotel."

Charlie squinted to distinguish the name and nodded slowly. "And apparently I was already smashed when arriving."

"How can you tell?"

Charlie had spotted her bag not far from there and had painfully bent over, looking for an aspirin. "Because the only way I wake up with you in a hotel called the Mirage is that I am close to ethylic coma. Or dead."

"You talk way too much for a ghost." Sam mumbled. He rubbed his eyes, moaning in pain. It was as if his head was only a mix of pins and broken bottles notching his withered brain. The first sips of water did no good to them and they ended up sitting next to one another on the sofa in the living room, lulled by the hiss of the tablets in the bottom of their glasses.

"I guess we'll be two to do the walk of shame this morning." Sam said in a hoarse voice that he didn't bother to clear. Charlie gave a disapproving growl by stirring her medicine of the tip of a spoon.

"No way. 'm not ashamed of what I've done."

"You have no idea what you've done." He pointed out, recovering his own glass. "Damn I had two girls in my bed and my headache's too strong to try to remember anything." He whined.

"Doesn't matter. I'm a queen and queens always hold their head high."

Sam snorted, between contempt and fun, then grimaced when tasting medication.

"I don't really feel like I have the makings of a prince right at this very moment."

Charlie smiled, taking her own glass. The slightest light hurt her eyes and as soon as she would have the courage a shower would be welcome. Maybe even two. She raised her glass full of bubbles to Sam.

"Looks like you'll have to be my king for today."

He raised his glass in turn to collide with that of the young woman. "I'll try." They emptied in one gulp the beverage and rested their glasses at the same time on the coffee table.

From the depths of Charlie's bag began a roll drum that she immediately regretted having chosen as a ring tone. Reaching the phone without throwing up was quite a feat in itself and Dean's ranting forced her to move the device apart from her ear.

"WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?"

"Vegas." She replied hoarsely.

"What the hell are you doing in Vegas?"

Charlie threw a questioning look at Sam, his eyes red and his hair tangled, the shirt he had thrown to the ground and never picked up, the glass he was holding in his hands as if it were a treasure.

"Drowning our sorrows I guess." She said softly. Dean didn't comment.

"Get your asses over here with the first plane." He ordered in a tone that allowed no contradiction before hanging up.

Charlie looked at the silent phone and then her friend. Sam shrugged. "Screw him. Him and his small world of domestic bliss, screw them." He grouched. Charlie nodded slowly.

"Maybe I should have told him we'd been kidnapped by aliens?"

"No. We have the right to feel bad sometimes, right? We did nothing wrong."

"I think we had to record today."

"Yeah, for what we've done lately..."

She had nothing to resond to that.

They succeeded each other to the shower and put again their clothes that smelled like smoke and traces of alcohol which certainly had dried overnight after being spilled. The mind a little clearer, Charlie began to feel hungry but the fear of vomit made her muzzle her stomach and just drink an umpteenth glass of water. On the bedside table, Sam's cell phone chirped happily to the rhythm of the scornful texts of Kevin.

There was a crumpled sheet by the phone that Charlie smoothed mechanically while waiting for her friend to exit the bathroom. There was a phone number on it, but no name. And a few lines scribbled with an unsteady hand. She had to squint to read them.

An unpleasant fog obscured her brain but it vaguely seemed to her that she wouldn't have gotten anything from these three lines if she had been in her normal state. If she hadn't still in mind the few words that Dorothy had scribbled hastily when leaving. Correction, when leaving her.

She remembered having knocked on the door of Winchester, finding only Sam and to have dissolved into tears, repeating in a loop "she left me, she left me" as if saying it again and again could change anything.

"Me too." He had replied.

Say the words didn't make the thing more credible or less cruel. It was even almost liberating and they had stayed a while in the living room without knowing what to do with their sorrows.

The rest was a flood of alcohol and bad ideas because neither Sam nor her knew how to handle pain rationally.

But there were a few words on the crumpled page and they inspired her. They went hand in hand with the feeling she had to be a broken teapot, with the ashtray in her mouth and the cloaca in her chest. She searched the nightstand, looking for a pen, and began to write quickly and without thinking. She was still covering the paper with words when Sam came back into the room.

"Find us a studio." She said without looking up from her paper.

"Now?"

"We're in Vegas Sam, we can find everything at any time!"

He leaned on the bedside table to watch what she was writing frantically and retrieved his phone, looking for a place to record. Charlie's frenzy was almost communicative. It took them two hours but they eventually settled in the studio that smelled of sweat and stale with rental bass and drums. Charlie had the tune in mind and she hummed it while seeking the chords on the poorly tuned instrument.

It was an unpleasant fog throughout, and saying that the piece they produced was worth it was probably a lie. But they had done something, which, in their state was already a victory.

The song was now properly written on a new paper and they were hungry. Night had fallen without their realizing it and their migraines had returned. They had turned off their phones which displayed an impressive number of missed calls when they got out of the studio. They looked at each other and realized at the same time that something had just happened.

There are pivotal moments that mark the passage between the before and the after. And they had just entered the after of their respective heartache. They walked a long time without saying anything until finding a restaurant whose smell did not raise their heart and settled there. The fat of the french fries filled in their stomach and they didn't order alcohol. Charlie had with her the CD of the mock up they had taken an entire afternoon to record. The sound was flawed and lacked arrangements but the idea was there, tangible and on track to exist for itself.

"I had forgotten why we do that." She said between bites. Her nails polished of chipped red were tapping rhythmically on the plastic caddy.

"Music?"

She nodded. "We were on tour for a year... it had become normal, mechanical and it shouldn't have. We should have… We should have remembered why we got here. That we had all come to the music through harsh paths and that it kept us self-righteous."

Sam said nothing but nodded slowly. "Maybe it's a good thing that we feel so bad, both of us." He said. "We can take all that and make something good of it. Something to cling, for us or those who listen to us."

"Isn't that what everyone do?"

"Yes. But it works, and everyone does it for a good reason, right?"

"Yeah."

They finished dinner and by mutual agreement took a taxi to the airport.

"Dean? Don't yell, we're coming back. And we got something for you."

"_Just because you love the girl,_

_And she loves you too,_

_Doesn't mean you should be together,_

_Doesn't mean you can make plans for two_."

##

Unlike Dean, Castiel found Sam and Charlie running away rather distracting. He was not amused by the distress of his friends, he hardly imagined in what state they were to do that. But it was still fun from an external point of view. And he needed to laugh these days.

"This is serious Cas! Kurt lodged a complaint against Sam, if the cops find out he left the state he's good for jail! And we we're good to be fired from Crowley Records with a kick in the ass!" Dean ranted, pacing up and down in the living room. Castiel almost regretted that this was the weekend and he didn't have the excuse of work to escape the foul temper of his companion.

"Precisely. Let them let off some steam, you'll have all the time to tear a strip off them after." He declared. He had no patience to wait for Dean to calm down and joined him at the center of the room, preventing him from continuing to pace the carpet.

He plugged his MP3 player on the docking station and held the singer with one hand while he was looking for the right playlist. It seemed that there was no more music around them since the end of the tour and it vaguely felt like not normal. They stood face to face in the living room when the first guitar notes filled the room before the low voice of Leonard Cohen supplants them.

Castiel took Dean into his arms carefully and tried to make him waltz despite his obvious reluctance.

"Dean!"

"I don't want to be distracted Cas!"

"Well I do! I've been deprived of sex for weeks because of this." Said the accountant by designating a bruise sticking out of his sleeve. "You owe me at least one dance!"

Dean frowned, amused. "It's only been five days!"

"See, you kept count!" Triumphed the young man. His absolute bad faith got the best of Dean who held him against himself as tight as he dared, laughing.

They danced, taking care not to bump the furniture, but actually the music didn't lend itself to anything other than a extremely slow dance. They were kissing when the song ended and didn't stop until the second set out.

"You really decided to put me in bed?" Dean asked softly when a new song filled the apartment. Castiel nodded, pushing him towards the bedroom.

They were almost appropriately dressed again and Cas was taking a painkiller when Sam and Charlie got out of the taxi that brought them from the airport. They had tired and happy faces and sallow complexion of people who need a night of rest.

Charlie almost threw herself on Dean with a delighted smile that he didn't expect to see her after Dorothy had left her. "We got the thing, we got it!" She babbled. He cast a quick glance to his brother while getting her into the apartment like a bulky shopping bag.

"What is she talkin' about?"

"We have a song." Sam answered with a weak smile. He had dull and tired eyes, but given the circumstances, Dean found him surprisingly fine. He remembered the last time Sam had lost the person he loved. He remembered it as the period when giving him drugs for him to sleep was the only way to keep him out of trouble. He still had some pills, minus one that Castiel had swallowed after his aggression.

"If you think it's gonna calm me down... Were the fuck were you?"

"Kidnapped by extraterrestrials, forget it Dean, listen!" Charlie walked to the CD player and placed the recording made earlier in the day, turning to her friend with fingers crossed.

Castiel and Sam were sitting on the sofa where the drummer began to bob head. Castiel was maybe listening even more attentively than Dean, and he was looking at him. He realized he was smiling when he saw the face of his lover change. The song wasn't happy, the opposite would have been surprising, but even with the sole accompaniment of drums and bass, despite the voice not always in tune of Sam it had something captivating. Something raw and true that brought Castiel back to his hospital bed, years ago, on the night when listening in loop the band's first album had made him reconsider his decision to kill himself. He bit his lip as he realized he had just thought it literally.

The music stopped and Castiel thought to himself that the hiss of an old record player would have been a welcome background noise to the silence that followed. Dean's face had changed, as well as his posture. He didn't seem angry as before, and also more relaxed. It was the face he had when he knew exactly what to do and where he was going, when he felt safe.

"Did you eat?" He asked.

The three others stared at him, confused.

"Hem... in the plane." Charlie answered.

"So everyone in their room, and you two, I want you ready to record at the crack of dawn tomorrow. Charlie you sleep in the guest room." Dean said in one go.

Three new surprised looks replied to him.

"That song's good, but we're not gonna record it in the middle of the night. Tomorrow morning we put it in the bag, and then..."

He didn't finish his sentence, but his eyes were shining, his hands waving in search of something to do, and he was smiling as he hadn't done since the ultimatum of Crowley.

"I think you found what we need."

None of the other three understood what he meant, but his enthusiasm was enough for them. Charlie and Sam slipped away before Dean remembers to reprimand them, and Castiel pulled him back to the bed. He felt him tossing and turning for a long time before finally falling asleep. But that wasn't a problem.

"_We decided to wait untill tomorrow_

_If both of us show, we'll know,_

_If none of us show, we'll know_

_I'm the only one who showed,_

_So, I know_."

##

The next day, Sam had red eyes when he burst into the recording studio. He went straight to the white board on the back wall and grabbed a marker. He wrote his sentence in big furious letters under Dean's.

"That's what I want for the new album." Said he firmly, capping his marker again.

"Everything." Kevin read. "What does that mean?"

"That I want everything. I want the crowd to be exhausted at the end of the show, I want Dean to have sang himself so hoarse that he'll need a day of rest after each concert, I want to lose arms on each song. I want your fingers to bleed on guitars. I want it to be epic, and huge. I want this to be as hard and amazing as life itself!"

He looked more tired and determined than exalted. But there was something in his manner of speaking, to stand that even Dean couldn't remember having ever seen him, as if he had just walked on hot coals and discovered he didn't feel pain. He threw him his drumsticks across the room.

"I agree with that." He said. He turned to his friends who nodded slowly.

From here, something seemed to click in them, as if a mental barrier between them and the inspiration had broken during Sam and Charlie's getaway to Vegas.

Each recording session started with a jam. They had established this ritual during the recording of their previous album, somewhat by chance. It was a ritual that placed them in a condition to record, as a warm up for their creativity. That morning, Kevin yawned while unpacking his cello. He tuned up by listening to the song of Sam and Charlie. It was to be rearranged, rewritten and redone in the morning but Dean had the gleam in his eyes, saying that none of them would come out of the studio before it to be "in the bag". This time, it was Sam who, without realizing it imposed them the warm-up music by nervously drumming the rhythm of "_Dani California_" until everyone tunes up. Charlie followed him and Kevin took a few measures more to join them. Dean sighed, rolled his eyes but ended up sitting between them and humming the song, a little more in rhythm with each measure. It was like stretching a sick muscle, and it was good. They were smiling, finishing the song and only Kevin realized that from the open door, Castiel was filming them with his camera.

Then he lost the thread of what was happening during a morning he wouldn't have remembered if Castiel hadn't recorded all of it. He only remembered to have realized that he was tired, uptight and tense suddenly after the last record. It'd be necessary to mix and go back the song over to smooth all the instruments one after the other but that would be Bobby's work, later in the afternoon. Dean was hungry. Later he would only remember that, he was hungry and had dragged his friends in a greasy spoon not far from the recording studio. He wouldn't remember what he had eaten, only their reaction when he had explained his plan for the album.

"You've known about it for long?" Sam grouched over what seemed to be his thirtieth cup of coffee. The question was addressed to Castiel who shrugged.

"For a week." He answered. "He told me about it after his talk with..." He paused and cast a guilty look to Charlie. "After deciding to keep the car."

"No offense, Cas" Kevin intervened. "but you're neither a photographer nor a graphic designer, do you really think you can realize the aesthetic and visual side of the album?"

"No." The young man answered quietly. "But I have no way to know until I've tried, and he thinks that since we share an organ, we also share his incredible talent."

Sam, Charlie and Kevin sighed, rolling their eyes together.

"I never said 'incredible'!" Dean defended himself.

"No, I added that. Do not argue my artistic bias!"

Only Kevin chuckled. Sam and Charlie were head bent over their plates, apparently each waiting for the signal of the other to try and touch it. Under the table, Dean stretched a little kick to both.

"You gonna be okay you two?"

No one really put words on the subject. A tacit agreement prevented them all to mention the sudden and inexplicable departure of Dorothy and the rejection of Madison. None of them had had news of them since before Sam and Charlie's little getaway.

The two friends looked at each other without any other feeling than a deep tiredness. Castiel wondered if it was that kind of shadow he had in his eyes when he passed in front of a hospital? And Kevin made a mental note to ask Channing if he had once seemed as sad that these two.

"Yeah." Sam answered slowly, nodding.

"We're gonna be all right." Charlie completed before seizing her fork and planting it furiously in a piece of meat.

"_Maybe we were always a bad idea,_

_Never meant to write a love story,_

_But I miss you already_."

##

The letters accumulated in Crowley's folder.

If he was particularly lucid about his flaws, the producer also knew he could boast of being patient and sagacious. It was in fact what had led him to his current position. He also knew that the key to success was generally do the right thing at the right time.

This time was approaching, or maybe it was already passed.

Bobby put down the last letter, his face clouded, and it wasn't because of the sun before which he sat in Crowley's office.

"The boys don't know?"

Crowley shook his head. "Not to my knowledge, if they received some, they didn't tell me."

"To me neither. Which means Sam didn't receive any. He wouldn't have been able to hide that."

"What about Dean?" Crowley asked, hands clasped under his chin. He was slightly turning on himself in his big leather chair, an almost hypnotizing movement that started to annoy Bobby.

The manager took the last letter again and smoothed the folds mechanically. He didn't need to read it, every hateful word was printed in his mind for a while now.

"If he had received a letter with that kind of content, we'd know. When was it send?"

"Three days ago." Crowley answered.

"After the accident then."

"After the accountant's agression."

"They don't know. None of them know." Bobby concluded.

Crowley nodded. He saw himself as a wise man, and the decades he had already spent in business and in show business had toughened him, had taught him how to react to threatening letters. He didn't know, however, how to react when the letters arrived after the events. Nor when they took a turn such as the one Bobby was now folding up before slipping it neatly in the folder. He hated that. Crowley hated not knowing. He hated even more being afraid and it was exactly what he was feeling.

It wasn't a frank terror, more a worry that concerned him only from afar. But the threats of John Winchester were becoming more frequent, more and more specific and targeted. Eventually, he would have to bring Dean and Sam up to date. Eventually, if their father didn't see reason, they would all be affected. The band was in a too delicate situation for afford that. Crowley had resolved for months to take care of this case only to the extent that it would have repercussions on his company which was currently not the case.

But wasn't just worried for his money anymore, but also for the kids. John Winchester seemed to be slowly losing his mind. A little faster since his accident. The letters were increasing.

"I hesitate to call the police." He said thoughtfully.

Bobby ran a hand over his face. "That would mean briefing them now. And if the press takes hold of it, they ain't gonna lay them off. Sam will already have to answer for assault and battery in a few days and none of them is strong enough to support this weight on top of the rest. They barely started recording."

"Then dependent on you to supervise them, but we'll have to inform them sooner or later, this concerns them more than us."

Bobby nodded. Between them the letter held out its shadow on the dark office. Sooner or later, for Bobby meant: as late as possible. The group had an album to record and was already stuck with enough enough without adding threats John.

"He wouldn't lash out at his own sons. He hopes to see them change. He won't lay into them."

"I'm not worried about them." Crowley replied calmly. He leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "I think the brunette..."

"Dorothy." Bobby cut him off.

"Dorothy, I think she did us a favour by vanishing into thin air."

Bobby nodded.


	22. Chapter 22 : Good To No One

**Warnings: **Swearing, language, mention of violence, mention/reference of past domestic abuse, death threat, implied homophobic threats

* * *

**Chapter 22: **Good to no one.

Charlie didn't say a word that morning while removing one by one all Sam's piercings for his hearing with the judge. They had agreed that for the occasion, he had to look the healthiest possible.

"I _am_ healthy." Had muttered Sam.

"Yeah but judges are dicks." Had retorted Charlie. "I've known a few and they judge just as much if your face fits than in light of the file. I'll help you to look presentable."

Maybe because it was cold, maybe by sympathy, she had herself dressed in jeans that seemed new, a t-shirt almost her size and a sweater that creased at her elbows. She had tied her hair and was biting her lip, concentrated not to hurt him by undoing the earrings or dragging the rings in the skin of his brow until he's devoid of any jewelry.

He looked at himself in the mirror of the bathroom, hands tight on the box that contained the piercings. He recognized himself on principle but it wasn't the reflection to which he was used. He had bags under his eyes that Charlie had refused to hide with makeup. "For a judge, a man that doesn't put on makeup. Just shut up and look tired."

"It's unfair." He mumbled. "I did the right thing and..."

Charlie leaned against the sink, folding her arms.

"Striking people is never the right thing to do."

"What was I supposed to do?" He lost his temper. "Let him harass her until she gets scared? Or until he decides to hit her?"

She frowned, raising her chin, furious. "Watch your tone!" She ordered. "I have nothing to do with it, I'm just trying to help you, and yes. Yes you should have let her take care of him and then let justice do its job without playing the hero! You weren't even playing the hero you... you unwinded on this guy who had done nothing to you, convincing yourself that it was for her. It'll probably convince a judge but not those who know you. And it shouldn't convince you!"

Sam opened his mouth to reply but Dean arrived at full throttle, alerted by the raised voices.

"What's goin' on here?" Charlie sighed, exasperated and left the room. "What'd you tell her?"

"Nothing!" Sam grunted, turning to the mirror. "She's on Kurt's side like everyone it seems."

Dean sighed.

"Everyone's on your side, Sam. Except that Charlie is the only one of us who had the courage to tell you that you did the right thing for the wrong reasons."

"What, you also think I did it to blow off steam?"

"That's not the case?" Dean asked, trying to catch the eye of his brother. Sam turned his head toward the mirror with a sigh, his hands gripping the edge of the sink.

"Yes."

Sam had vaguely expected dark wood, leather and stacks of files scattered on each flat surface, spewing their litigation papers between two hard covers. But the judge's office was tidy, spacious, bright and white.

"You didn't need to come you know." Had he told Dean before entering. His brother had pushed the door, raising his eyes to heaven. "One day you'll have to let me take care of my problems on my own."

"One day." Had replied Dean. "But not today. However, you'll be on your own when you go grovel to Madison after that. And believe me you will, even if I have to drag both of you by the hair for you to talk to each other."

Sam had smiled, saying it was very unlikely. They had sat in uncomfortable chairs in the judge's office with a lawyer hired by Crowley, and beside them Kurt and his lawyer. Sam had barely resisted the urge to make him eat his confident look.

He now had a letter in his hands. He had kept an amazing ability to memorize a text very quickly after Stanford, and the letter that Madison had sent to his lawyer through Crowley was the kind to mark him.

"Do you acknowledge the facts, Mr. Winchester?"

Sam nodded. Then, before the insistent silence of the judge, answered yes.

"The testimony of miss Sinclair absolutely doesn't exonerate you from the charge of assault and battery, however, it is very incriminating for Mr. Wagner."

"We weren't informed of this document in the case." Kurt's lawyer intervened, reaching for Sam to demand the letter. The young man deliberately put it down on the desk, folded, leaving it to the judge to entrust it or not to the opposing party.

"It seems unlikely to me. We know that it is common to conduct a search criminal records in cases like this one and if you found informations about the past of Mr. Winchester, you cannot ignore the one of Mr. Wagner, in particular this, which was attached to the letter." The judge pulled out of the folder an A4 photo that he showed them without handing it to them.

The harsh light illuminated Madison's skin, making it more white than in reality, unless at the time she had been actually very pale. This brought out the bruises adorning her arms, ribs, thighs. They disappeared under the t-shirt and her underwear but Sam easily imagined how far they extended. Dean had put his hand on his shoulder to calm him down but it only half-worked.

Kurt didn't reply.

"These data will help you avoid jail Mr. Winchester, but neither the fine nor probation. Furthermore you will complete a sentence of community service."

Sam nodded, it had been agreed and requested by their lawyer, Sam pleading guilty. He didn't care about community service nor the fine that was only substantial. Madison had written to plead his case. He also didn't care about his reputation, about what the press would do once it would seize the case. Crowley would deal with it. Crowley always dealt with this kind of stuff and had an amazing ability to turn that to his advantage. Madison had written. She hadn't rejected him en bloc even if she wasn't here today. She had stood up for him as she had done for Kurt a few weeks earlier. It was important and almost unbelievable but Sam wasn't particularly sure he understood her motives.

He thought to himself that he deserved a medal for not again give a punch in the face of Kurt when coming out of the judge's office. He lit a cigarette outside the building and took a long drag before exhaling a cloud of smoke.

"Apparently she still cares about you." Dean said, hands in his pockets.

"Apparently. That perfectly explains why she left earlier than expected for her new job, why she filters out our calls and why she hasn't given any sign of life." The younger said darkly.

"Stop bitchin' bitch. You know what I mean."

"Yeah." Sam replied. "I know. And don't imagine things, it's over between us."

"You still can sort it out."

Sam shook his head. "No." He still had Madison's picture in mind. He had believed until then that he understood her motives, but he was wrong. No one had ever laid a hand on him, not even his father in his worst fits of anger, not even Dean when he probably should have. The last time he had had bruises, it was after jumping into a pool from a roof with Charlie and having poorly landed. Whatever vague degree of empathy he believed being endowed, he could imagine, but not really understand.

"The first time she fled was because of him." He said, pointing to Kurt who was retreating in the sparsely populated street. "The second time it was because of me. It's exactly as if everything started all over again like with Dirk. I wanted to protect her, to be better than the other, and in the end I found myself a little worse. I won't inflict that to her again. Even if she was game."

Dean had nothing to respond to that, he let his brother finish his cigarette and took him by the shoulder to accompagny him at home.

"_I can't lose the ones I love,_

_I can't live alone_

_But I'm poison_

_And do good to no one_"

##

Music had its own rhythm, its own life and curiously, its own movements. Channing had learned that very young when starting violin. Music was a sport that rigidified members, made the fingers calloused and clenched the belly.

It was both exhausting and rewarding, even when she was alone in the glazed recording booth, with the looks of the group placed on her. Kevin had called on her to record additional violin lines for the new album. Dean had proposed that she accompanies them later on the tour but she had declined the offer quickly.

"That, is your life... His life." She had replied, pointing to Kevin. "Not mine, I study financial investments in Michigan and I try to be the best violinist. That's all."

"I like her." Castiel had decreed with a smile and then a shrug in front of the looks of incomprehension that had followed his declaration. "What? I like numbers!"

This had made them laugh and since then, they recorded compositions half-improvised by the heat of the moment because nobody except Kevin and her had knowledge of their instruments. This lasted for three days already and it seemed to her that she hadn't slept the whole time, but emulation was such that they all seemed terrified to let their excitement fall, as if they were afraid of falling into the apathy of the beginning of the recording that Kevin had told her about on the phone.

Channing liked to see them play, to hear them compose. She placed herself next to Castiel, behind the camera that recorded the jam sessions that began each of their days, and watched them work. He, took photographs when he was there, in search of the perfect idea for the art concept of the album.

Each of the four interacted with space differently. Sam by spreading his big frame, arms outstretched to the cymbals, one leg on his pedals. Charlie, concentrated on her bass, Kevin with his long movements of the tip of the bow, and Dean, who sometimes let himself be carried away by the song or the guitar tune and shimmied in front of his microphone, hands-on his headset to get the best possible feed.

The month was ending, they were beginning to have material to work, some kind of guideline and an idea not at all specific of what they would present to Crowley. They had recorded two songs and several others ongoing that mixed a bit like the ingredients of a cake. The themes were less gloomy than before but maybe a little more depressing. Everything was slowly beginning to take shape in the most unexpected way. Piece by piece, everything assembled and they had no other choice but to let inspiration work despite themselves. Bonus oint, not a day passed without them sniggering at an idea that would make Crowley grind his teeth when he would discover the concept of their album a few days later.

Castiel had two pictures open on his computer screen and was biting the nail of a thumb, looking dismayed.

"I can't manage to choose." He finally grouched. He was looking at the photos for hours now. "I can't choose, I need both. You cannot describe someone with only one picture, in any case I can't."

Dean leaned over him, looking at the two pictures next to each other, not retouched yet, cut by a reflection on the screen. Castiel was still grumbling: "You said you wanted them to show your public and your personal facet, but none of you is the same person in public or in private. I still need two photos to show both facets."

Dean could see the problem. By submitting to Castiel the idea of a sleeve that would show them each in both their public and private aspects he had thought that no one was most capable than him to take these photos. On the one hand because he was one of the only ones to have had a glimpse of what his lover did with a camera in the hands, and also because no one else saw them both as friends and idols. Castiel slept little for a month, alternating between his work days and his evenings spent with them in the studio, trying to find the perfect angle for his photos, or planning other stagings. Sometimes, with Charlie and Kevin, he spent the night manipulating their official website to offer fans some glimpses of the recording. He had dark circles under his eyes and lately it was Channing who reminded him of going to shower before returning to work. But he was impacted by the emulation of the group and perfectly happy to take part in their work.

"Keep 'em both." Dean said thougthfully. "I have an idea."

"_You look in a miror and hate what you see,_

_You close your eyes and take a shot,_

_Throw away the questions you've got,_

_And make a step to change your story._"

##

"I feel like I failed the Bechdel test in the last three weeks." Madison said, wallowing on her hotel room bed, the hand extended to Dorothy for the young woman to give her a beer that they had just purchased.

"The one that assesses the representation of women in cinema?"

"This one. You know, the one where you discover that the female character exists only to serve as love interest for the hero."

Dorothy let out a dry laugh. "For you to fail this test, it would mean that I consider Sam as the central character of the story. And to my knowledge, in your story, he isn't. He isn't the one who escaped from an abusive relationship. He isn't the one who learned to start afresh alone, traveling with strangers. He's not the one who made the initiatory path in this story." She sat on the second bed of the hotel room and uncapped her beer before lifting it to their health.

Madison smiled. "You do realize that you are wrong and that this conversation also fails the test?"

"Do not contradict me, I'm trying to cheer you up!" Dorothy grumbled. "You know, there is nothing wrong with idealising the idea of love, or having gotten the wrong partner. Even less when you had the courage to fight for yourself. So for now, we don't talk about him, let's talk about the fact that you and I leave tomorrow for a new tour of the United States, about what we'll do in each State, the places we'll visit during the days off..."

Madison smiled. "I feel like the coward lion that you drag into adventure. Or Johnny..."

"Still better than being just someone who fails the Bechdel test, don't you think?"

"Yeah. Thank you."

"Don't thank me. I feel that if I looked more like you, if I assumed a little more my feelings for the other I wouldn't spend my life running from my problems, driving a truck. You know Maddy, I actually admire you."

"Mutual admiration is a good basis for friendship."

Dorothy smiled and nodded even though she knew that the other couldn't see her.

"A very good basis." She agreed

They drank, channel-surfing, both too excited by their imminent departure to think of sleeping.

"Can I ask you an indiscreet question?" Madison finally asked between reruns of Friends. Dorothy nodded silently. "Why did you leave Charlie? Not assuming your feelings is one thing, but leaving like that with just a break-up note... it doesn't look like what I know of you."

Dorothy took a moment to answer, Madison was sincerely persuaded to have gone too far and ready to apologize when she finally got up to rummage in her purse and handed her a torn envelope.

"I opened it inadvertently."

The letter was addressed to Charlie and contained only a few lines typed on the computer and unsigned.

_"They won't come to bury you once I killed you."_

Madison felt her blood run cold, it was more than an expression, it seemed like something very chill suddenly ran down her back and she had a big lump in the throat.

"Do you know who it's from?" She asked in a trembling voice, handing the paper back to Dorothy.

"No."

"You didn't bring it to the police?"

"No. Whoever it is, he or she already has something against Charlie, I didn't take the risk to expose her more. An investigation..." Dorothy shook her head. "I've already seen a police investigation, ask a lot of perfectly useless questions and then people blow rumors up out of all proportion. Neither her nor the group need that."

"You think she was threatened because of you?"

"Do you see any other reason? She's reckless, inconsequential and a bit borderline, but she's been touring with Free Will for years and she had never received any threats. We were photographed two or three times in recent months and she gets this, in her home..."

Madison looked at Dorothy, her features hard, her face darkened.

"You didn't tell her." She realized. "You left, thinking you're protecting her and you didn't even tell her why?"

"I know her. She would retort that she doesn't care, that if we spend our lives stuck by fear we won't do anything, she would kiss me and convince me to stay another day, then another, until some horrible thing happens. I left, and she won't see me again."

Madison nodded, that kind of speech sounded like Charlie, and also like herself. She could also understand Dorothy's reaction although she was wary not to point out that she found it stupid and dangerous. It wasn't the kind of speech that her friend was able to hear, at least not for now.

"I would have thought you'd prefer the truth over this kind of lie. She must be miserable now."

Dorothy gave a little sign of assent and drained the rest of her beer in one gulp. "Probably, but she'll get over it, and I've never claimed to be brave or benevolent, you all invented that on your own."

Madison smiled before finishing her beer too.

"So now, are you ready to conquer the world?"

"And how!"

Later that night, after Dorothy has finally dozed, Madison left the room quietly to make a phone call. Since she took the liberty to judge Dorothy, left without any explanation, she couldn't allow herself the right to do the same. Sam picked up on the third ring.

"Hey." She said softly, leaning against the wall of the hotel corridor.

"Hey."

"I'm calling to tell you that I'm leaving. I'm with Dorothy, we got engaged on another tour."

"Fine." Sam replied in a neutral voice. "You called just for that?"

Madison sighed. She wanted to apologize, to tell him that she was sorry to cause him such pain, but it was probably pretentious of her to assume that Sam's life would be affected by her departure. "I'll miss it all." She finally said, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Reading love stories with you, trying to find out who should rule over Westeros. I'll miss not laughing with you anymore while we're making love. I'll miss slowly falling in love with you. I'll miss you."

"You're the one who left." There was curiously no reproach in his voice. "And I get it, Mads... I think I get it. It's probably the best thing to do, to leave because I'm not the kind of person you need. I'd be unable to protect you from anything because when I try, I become the threat." A silence. "And I'm sorry for that. I wish it didn't happen or that you didn't get scared of me and you didn't leave. But you know better than me what's good for you, and I'm sorry."

"The truth is that I want you." She said abruptly. She bit her lower lip, looking downat her bare feet. "I want you in the morning, entering the kitchen with your pajamas too old, and you kiss me on the nose to distract me while you steal my pancakes." She wanted to cry and now regretted having called. She was just supposed to tell him… to tell him what? That she really wished things worked between them?

"Mads..."

"That's what I want, and I think about it all the time. I want the perfect life with the little white fence and a puppy dog that we would take for a walk on Sunday mornings."

Sam sighed at the other end of the line. "It's not the kind of life that I'll have Madison... It's not... I tried, this isn't for me."

"I know." She said, swallowing the lump that knotted her throat and made her talk a tone higher than usual. "No, actually I don't. And you don't know either. You say that when you try to protect the people you become the threat and you are wrong. You screw up, we all screw up, it's normal. But what you blame yourself for... Dirk, Jess, me… that wasn't your fault. Or not entirely. That was circumstances, life, or whatever you want, but not just you."

She realized as her monologue went along, how much she really believed it.

"That's why I wrote to the judge. Because you're one of the best people I've ever met. And I wish it worked, really."

"I wish that too." He replied in a low voice.

She was about to tell him that she loved him, because it was still true despite the fear and the determination not to live once again what had happened with Kurt. She swallowed the words and chose others instead.

"Take care."

"You too."

And they hung up.

"_I'm a walking tragedy,_

_With metal on my tongue and silver on my gun,_

_There's blood on my name, dirt on my hands_

_Now that I've lost the ones that saw me,_

_Not as I am but as I long to be._"


	23. Chap 23:What is and What should never be

**Warnings: swearing, language, mention and reference of threats, mention and reference of homophobic violence, mention and reference of physical violence, implied slight alcohol abuse, mention and reference of memory loss due to drunkenness, mention and reference of rape/non-con, mention and reference of past abusive relationship, mention and reference of past domestic abuse, mention and reference of lack of self-esteem, mention and reference of past suicidal thoughts, mention of past underage, mention of past character death**

* * *

**Chapiter 23: **What is and What should never be

"_If someone had broken my heart a lil' more_

_If I had to find what was worth fighting for_

_Maybe I'd feel like I deserve this_

_That thing that is_

_While others will never be."_

Castiel was exhausted. Curiously, he liked it. Often, fatigue came from illness, treatments, it was accompanied by a wave of terror to once again end up in hospital. This time, it was a logical and natural exhaustion. He spent his days at work handing over balance sheets and keeping his intern away. He had a calendar taped in a drawer where he checked the days before her leaving. He hated the way she looked and observed him as if he were a tabloid on his own. Gradually, the rumor of his relationship was spreading in the office and he heard whispers on his way. His evenings were spent in the band's studio or with Dean and between he prepared a file for Crowley. His fatigue implied that he lived faster and stronger than he had ever done and it made him happy.

That Friday, he could barely keep his eyes open despite having drank more coffee in a week than all his life, and Crowley was leafing through the file he had carefully prepared for the group. Beside him, Sam was biting his nails, looking anxious and Dean feigned a relaxed pose that could have fooled a journalist, but none of the people in the room. The producer put the folder on his desk and stared at Castiel.

"You really take fans for fools."

Castiel shrugged. "Fans are fools, I know what I'm talking about. They are willing to pay what it takes for a quality product or of mediocre quality as long as it's well sold. They will buy the CD for the code that there will be inside, giving them access to a special part of the website containing exclusive glimpses of the recording of the album."

"What will prevent them from cracking the code, or uploading the "exclusive" contents on other media?"

"Nothing." Castiel replied calmly. "That's why the hidden part of the site will include another code, randomly generated and entitling to discounts on downloads of a future acoustic album."

"Album which will therefore be in illegal downloading ten minutes after getting the first code."

"That's the idea." The accountant smiled. "The group's responsibility is to do something excellent, word of mouth will do the rest, and during the release of the acoustic album you can make a new edition of the previous, and a double collector with exclusive content. You and me both known that it'll attract fans and collectors without making them cringe and the acoustic part will only increase the public of the group by attracting people that rock doesn't interest at first glance. If it's good, people buy even if they have already downloaded and you know it."

Crowley stared at him for a while with a tiny tip of respect in his look that indicated Castiel that he had won. "And how much will this cost me?"

"Kevin and Charlie are ready to take care of the site and they are crafty enough to secure it almost correctly. The acoustic material is being recorded. The production of both albums won't require much more time or investment than a single one since we make all at once."

"I want numbers Castiel."

"A lot. With a possibility of return on investment of around 30-50%."

Sam and Dean hadn't uttered a word, Crowley nodded slowly.

"I cover you for a year. No, eight months, in eight months I want at least one product finished and enough to start a promotional campaign."

They all three shook their heads and it was Castiel who leaned over the desk, hand outstretched to shake Crowley's. The Winchester stood up and saying their good-byes to their producer before leaving without realizing that Crowley was still holding the hand of the accountant, forcing him to sit down a minute longer.

"I have to talk to you about something." He said, his hands flat on his desk. Castiel found the attitude strange, Crowley had this unpleasant habit of always crossing his hands or fingers as if to signify that his interlocutors would get nothing from him. The young man waited for Crowley to decide himself wordlessly and eventually took the paper that the businessman was handing him. He frowned while deciphering the letter and his face changed of expression and color.

"It arrived before or after my aggression?"

"After." Crowley answered.

"Were there others?"

"This is the last one."

Castiel glanced at the door behind which Dean and Sam were certainly waiting for him, in a few seconds one of them would knock on the door and ask why he wasn't coming out.

"Why showing that to me?"

"For you to be warned. The Winchester father is dangerous."

"I noticed, thank you." Castiel replied coldly.

"They don't know about it, and they won't before the release of the album. I need you to watch over them."

Castiel cocked his head to the side with a rictus. "And how am I supposed to do that? In case you didn't notice, I'm an accountant, I'm not even thirty years old and I spend a significant number of days in the hospital lately."

But Crowley didn't need to answer, Castiel knew exactly what he had to do. Give the letter back, not mention it to Dean, and act as usual. Protect himself, protect Dean, be there for him, and Dean would take care of the other group members.

"It was useless to show this to me." He grumbled, standing up.

"I wanted someone other than Bobby and I knows..."

Castiel regarded him for a moment. "You worry... You worry about them."

"I worry about my investment." Crowley corrected, opening the door behind which Sam was lighting a cigarette. He glared at the young man, hitting him behind the head, and closed the door.

"What did he want to talk about?"

"Return on investment." Castiel lied.

##

In the month that followed, the rhythm of recordings decreased because Sam was taken by his hours of community service. Castiel suspected Crowley of bribing the judge because it was quite unlikely that for a charge of assault and battery, Sam was sentenced to work one hundred hours in an animal shelter. Yet this was the case to the delight of Charlie and journalists who had finally discovered the thing. For a week the tabloids had only talked about it. A drummer beating up his girlfriend's ex. And then a drummer making adopt puppies. Kevin and Charlie had taken bets on the time it would take for Sam to adopt one himself.

The Intern (Castiel didn't even bother anymore to call her by her name) voluntarily left magazines laying around in the office and Castiel had a hard time to keep from flipping through them while grinding his teeth. He no longer had illusions, since she spread her rumors, everyone in the company had necessarily sought to verify if he really banged a rockstar, some even had the courage to come and ask him to his face and he held them in higher esteem than the others. He even did an online search to see if their secret was as well kept as they thought. That wasn't the case and in retrospect, he felt stupid for believing that his relative tranquility was the confirmation of their discretion.

He wasn't however, prepared to tell about his life to anyone, no matter that his lover is known, or one of his friends is on the front cover of all the tabloids with three puppies in the arms.

He bought the magazines on the way back home and threw them on the coffee table distractedly, wondering if he wanted a cup of tea or a shower. The desire to read articles on Sam had left him on his way. His phone vibrated in the pocket of the old trench coat he had gotten out of the closet since the temperature had dropped.

"Hey." Dean said."You're at your place?"

"I just got home." Answered Castiel, finally opting for tea.

"Remember the discussion you had with your mother? About the children we won't have?"

Castiel frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Someone knocked on the door and he heard the echo in the phone he was holding tight against his ear. Dean was standing in the hallway with a big smile and his own phone in hand.

"What are you doing?"

"Do you remember? This discussion."

The young man nodded and stepped aside to let his lover in. Dean put the phone on the dessert trolley and began to half-open his jacket. "Remember, you told her that with my habit of retrieving stray cats it wasn't impossible that we end up with a brat?"

"I am sure of not having formulated it like this." Castiel smiled, leaning against the door he had just closed.

Dean reached into his jacket as he finished unzipping it and pulled out a small ball of fur crumpled and meowing which tried to paw him in passing.

"It lacked a home and I'm sure you lack something to decorate the rug."

Castiel widened his eyes and instinctively reached for the kitten that was struggling between Dean's fingers. The animal stopped hissing a second and sniffed his fingertips before viewing him for a moment with its large blue eyes, whiskers quaking with fear.

"I thought it'd look good in the background." Dean said again, placing the kitten in the outstretched hand of Castiel. The animal planted its little claws in his palm as if afraid of falling, and tried to chew his thumb. It was all white and soft like a cuddly toy. Castiel smiled.

"You saw a white kitten with blue eyes and you thought I needed a few more clichés in my life?" He said while the kitten clung to the sleeve of his sweater and began a perilous ascent up to his chest where it nestled into the crook of his arm with a sigh of contentment.

"Stop bitching, you already love it!" Dean replied, standing up on tiptoe to kiss his lover on the forehead. "It was all alone in the kittens cage at Sam' shelter, it was breaking my heart." Castiel nodded and finally dropped the kitten on the floor. He watched it discover its environment a moment before finally remembering he wanted tea before being interrupted.

"I have something to show you." He said, immersing the bag in the cup. He led Dean to his computer, followed by the kitten which began to complain of hunger. "I don't have the slightest desire to go out again to buy food for it."

"I'll take care of that." Dean replied. "It'll be good for my image."

Castiel had an approving face and sat down at the computer, installing the cat on his lap where it immediately began to lose its white fur on his black pants. He displayed two pictures of Kevin on the computer. The left one showed a smiling young man wrapped in his favorite purple hooded sweatshirt, head slightly down. From this angle, his labret piercing had reflected the flash and those on his ears weren't visible. Castiel had altered the contrast and saturation until he seems very pale under the intense color of his hood. The second photo was a wide shot, still of Kevin, this time in black and white, the only touch of purple color came from the hoodie he was still wearing, but this time he was sitting alone in a large amphitheater, his cello against him, playing.

"The color photo for the normal album. The black and white for the acoustic."

Dean nodded slowly, leaning against the desk. On Castiel's lap, the kitten yawned.

"Can you do the same for each of us?"

"Yes, and superimpose some song lyrics. This isn't an innovative concept, but it can look something good."

"It will look good." Dean corrected with confidence. Castiel didn't answer, focused on his first sip of tea that warmed his hands. "You don't believe me." Dean realized.

"Yes, I do."

"Liar."

Castiel put down the cup thoughtfully. "I'm doing my best Dean, but art is your thing, not mine! I align numbers. I know you love me and you love my pictures, but you put the project in jeopardy by entrusting the visual part of the album to me... Nepotism doesn't work, and you know it."

"That's not the issue." Dean retorted quietly. "I know you're not a photographer, even I can see the amateurism in your pictures. The important is that you know us. Unlike a professional photographer, when I ask you to show two sides of us, you know what I mean."

Castiel nodded slowly.

"What do you consider doing for Sam and Charlie?"

Castiel smiled. "You don't ask what I consider doing for you?"

"I'll know soon enough."

"_I just had to hold on a little,_

_A few years of pain and I found shelter_

_It's deeply unfair, for the small amount of time I suffered_"

##

Channing was bouncing up and down with excitement, clapping her hands.

"You would agree?"

Kevin nodded with a broad smile. "That's what we had planned anyway." He said, earning a puzzled look from his friend. "When we were in high school, before I receive the letter from Princeton, we said that if we were going to college together we would share an apartment."

The girl's face lit up. "We said that if necessary we'd eat potatoes three times a week."

"And soup."

"And we had drawn the plan of the living room with a double desk for exam periods."

Kevin nodded. "I still have the drawing somewhere."

"If I land a job in LA, we won't need a double desk."

Kevin mentally went around his living room where Channing had spent a week, time for the recording of the album violin lines. It was small and cluttered. The unique bookcase was too full, books piled next to the sofa bed, and they hadn't done the dishes for so long that the bacteria in the bottom of cups were beginning to raise civilizations in coffee remains. They knew each other for so long that it had seemed perfectly natural for them to live together for a week until Castiel informs Channing that a post would be unfilled a few months later in his firm and she could probably submit an application.

"There is no room for a double desk." Kevin said. "But at worst, if we halve the rent we may be able to find something bigger."

"As if we had gone to college together."

Kevin nodded. "As if we had followed the plan, just with a few years late."

"That would be... fantastic."

"You just have to be the best and crush all the others during this interview!"

Channing nodded. "Being the best, that I can do."

Kevin smiled.

In the other part of the studio, Charlie and Sam were recording a new song. It was rather sweet and tender in the lyrics and curiously the very sustained pace that they were imposing to themselves would suit it perfectly. Charlie's back and shoulders hurt, by dint of carrying her bass, and her hands were painful of tightening on the handle of the instrument or her pick. Sam's shoulders were burning. On the other side of the perspex wall, Bobby raised his thumbs up, indicating he had the sound he needed. Sometimes Sam and Charlie needed to play together for the song's backdrop to be consistent. More and more often these days they recorded together and when Kevin and Dean returned the next day, they had to adapt to the new melody or a rhythm invented offhand by Sam. This annoyed deeply the cellist who loved notes well calibrated on their staves. Dean contented himself with adapting.

On the surface nothing had changed, they all spent too much time together, and when Dean was at Castiel's, Charlie brought her extra controller and challenged Sam to war games until the upstairs neighbor comes and asks them to stop their row.

They also drank together, always with the vague feeling or slight fear that if Dean caught them they would both go through hell. And they didn't talk about the girls. Neither contravened this unwritten rule because they had already said all there was to say on the subject.

"I won't make the same mistake with her that I did with Dirk."

"If she prefers freedom to me, too bad for her."

It was a bit dark, deep down not as liberating nor as serene as they would have wished, but it allowed them to slowly forget about this story, about Vegas, and about a piece of their life they would have thought longer and more pleasant.

But something was wrong and they all felt it but never dared broach the subject. Sam and Charlie had lost the ease they had with each other. They no longer exchanged their clothes or jewelry, no longer understood each other with a nod like this had been the case previously and talked to each other only for small talk or through music. Their compositions were improving gradually with the recording sessions and they found through the rhythm the communication they had lost at speaking.

"Do you think we should do something?" Kevin inquired to Dean after a few weeks of this climate. The singer shook his head, seated very straight in the recording studio couch, watching Charlie and Sam leaned over a recalcitrant tablature on the other side of the transparent wall.

"No. Let them settle that themselves."

"It's.. sick."

Dean nodded. "One way or another, they will eventually address the problem, we'll see at that moment if it's make or break."

"And if it doesn't make it?"

Dean sighed. "I prefer not to think about it."

A week passed, then two. Even Castiel began to feel the growing tension between Sam and Charlie. The young man had finished his hours of community service and now he had no excuse to get away from the group. He no longer hid the liquor bottles that were heaped up in a basket under the kitchen table, waiting to be taken to the recycling center, something Dean refused to do.

One night, without any of them knows why, everything exploded. In retrospect, neither Charlie nor Sam could say what had sparked the argument. They just remembered the growing unease and that he had just won against her in a car racing game.

"Dammit, it messed you up this much to wake up beside me in Vegas?" Sam shouted, throwing a cushion from the couch to the face of the bassist.

She caught the object and put it away from her, looking surprised, her controller abandoned on the ground automatically paused the game when she walked on it.

"It disgusts you so much to imagine having touched me?" Sam shouted again.

From Dean's bedroom, Castiel heard them arguing and got up to intervene. His lover held him by the arm and shook his head.

"I'll go if that gets worse, but they need that right now."

In the living room Charlie shook her head. "No, of course not!" But it was a lie and they both knew it. Sam sat down with a weary sigh.

"I don't want to criticize, Charlie, but if you have something to reproach me, at least do it clearly!"

"Dammit Sam, I don't even know what we did!"

He let out a cold laugh. "You think I'm capable of that? You really think I'm this awful?"

"I don't even know what you're talking about." Charlie grumbled, sitting down next to him.

"We were smashed, you more than me. Sleeping with a drunk girl, in my language it's how you spell "rape". And I'm not a rapist. I'm not a good guy, I'm not... But that, even drunk, even beside myself I wouldn't do that."

Charlie said nothing for a moment.

"We don't play in the same team anyway." She said quietly.

"That, princess, doesn't stop some." Sam said with a rictus. "But even if we were playing on the same team, I like when my partners are consenting. And given how you avoid me since then, you clearly aren't."

"I don't avoid you! We spend our life together!"

"One doesn't cancel the other out. You can be distant even being right beside me." Sam replied. "In the bus, in the morning when I woke up, you were the first I saw, and I knew in advance wether you'd be in a good mood or not just by watching you sleep just before your alarm rings. Now, I don't see anything."

"I don't sleep much." Charlie acquiesced.

"I know." A silence. "You miss Dorothy?"

Charlie nodded. "It should pass, it should decrease, but I miss her every day a little more."

"Love is awful, huh?"

The young woman nodded gravely, then reached out to her friend whom she briefly hugged before placing a kiss on his cheek. "And it was even worse lately. I missed you too."

"Yet I was right here."

She nodded with a shrug. "Apparently, we can avoid and miss each other even being next to each other."

"How did we get here?"

Charlie shrugged again. "I don't know. Apparently, we're two idiots who don't know very well how to handle heartaches."

"But we can try to manage this one like intelligent adults."

When Dean entered the living room half an hour later they were piling the empty bottles in a box that Sam took down to the garbage chute. Nobody mentioned it, but for a long time thereafter, there was no longer any alcohol at the Winchesters's or at Charlie's. That night, Castiel took the photo of the bassist that would be on the acoustic album. Asleep on the couch, face half buried in one of the cushions, curled-up on herself and wrapped in a blanket Sam had pulled up to her shoulders. Later, he would retouch the photo so the tartan rug appears of the same pink as the old umbrella under which Dean had sheltered her the day they met. Charlie found nothing wrong with the picture.

They gave interviews in the months that followed, while they were recording. Excerpts from their words, sometimes more or less misrepresented, began to adorn the walls of the studio.

Castiel's favorite had a tendency to fall off from its location and lie around until someone steps on it and hangs it up, each time a little more wrinkled or dirty.

_"That's what's expected of a rock star. You wear leather, you get a tattoo, you seduce people, you put on make-up to get yourself talked about. And when the show is over, you work harder than anyone else to try to live of the small talent you were gifted with. And no one will everever realize it. They will all keep thinking we have an easy life. This is what's expected of us so that's what I do. That's how I make my living."_

Thanksgiving passed and the albums were recording slowly. All their studio sessions began with an acoustic version of a popular title that served to warm up Dean's voice. They had a very long list pinned to the door of the studio in which they picked one or more songs every day. All the recordings weren't necessarily exploitable, and Charlie put online on their official website their biggest fits of giggles. On Christmas Day they uploaded a cover version of "Last christmas" which had some success. Or maybe Sam's much improved eggnog had made them a bit too much light-headed and they were mistakening.

It was the very day after that Castiel took the two last pictures of the double CD cover, those that posed problem to him from the beginning and of which he kept putting the execution off until later. Sam's presented itself in the afternoon of Christmas after a too short night and the gifts opening.

Showing the drummer on his public face was easy, all it had taken was to place him on the material crates of his drums, shirtless and sticking his pierced tongue out. It was easy, with a character like Sam to show what he wanted people to see. Showing the Sam Castiel knew was much more difficult, mainly because the subject moved over at the slightest approach like a kitten in the rain. It was exactly what inspired Castiel when he found Sam on his couch, writing in their old leather journal, hair disheveled, wearing a sweater and threadbare jeans. Castiel's kitten still fit in the large free hand of the drummer where she had fallen asleep, curled up, probably shortly before. He quietly retrieved his camera before neither of them could actually become aware of his presence and centered just when Sam raised his hand to his face and kissed the tip of the muzzle of the kitten who began to yawn, stretched out, and went back to sleep, claws firmly planted in his sleeve.

Much later that day, Castiel took the last picture, the one that was closest to his heart and would therefore be the most difficult to let reproduce in thousands of copies that everyone would see. Dean was getting out of the shower and Castiel prevented him to get dressed, forcing him to stand in the living room a few seconds the time to take the photo he wanted.

"You're aware that this is going somewhere on the cover of the new album?" Dean grumbled, shivering. "And that making me pose naked is nearly prostitution?"

"You're aware that you asked me to do this because you trust me? Now shut up and do as I say."

"I get all tingly when you take control like that." Dean teased. He had crossed his arms as if to shield himself and Castiel thought to himself that his lover would have as much difficulty to accept the picture as him to show it.

He decided to change the angle, moved behind Dean, which earned him a curious and a bit worried look. From there he saw the tattooed flaming lily of which few people knew the meaning, the line of his shoulders, the small of his back with the revolvers crossed on a flowerbed of roses. He approached his lover to make him turn a little more towards the light from the window and put his wrist behind his back, placing a soft kiss on his shoulder in passing. "Don't move." He murmured. This session would have to be completed in record time because Castiel wasn't sure to stay focused on his idea much longer. Moreover, Dean wasn't a very cooperative model. He seemed more able than his brother to stay still but it was an illusion given the trouble he had to hold the position in which Castiel had put him, he could almost see the muscles tense to not move as he took time to center what he wanted.

"You done?" Dean grouched.

"Almost."

Click. Click.

The shutter of the camera clicked again a few times before Castiel picks it up from its tripod and comes to place himself face to his lover.

"I never should have asked you something like that." Dean sighed, not daring to move even if Castiel was facing him now. The young man raised the camera and quickly snapped a picture of his face without actually centering.

"You can move. I'm done." He said, moving up on tiptoe to kiss him. Dean wrapped his arms around the shoulders of his lover with a sigh of relief stifled by the lips of Castiel.

"It was a very bad idea." He said.

"Wait to see the result." Castiel smiled, holding him in his turn. The cool metal of the camera against his bare back made Dean shiver as he cuddled up more tightly to his lover.

"I already have a result here." He said.

Castiel rolled his eyes. "Your pick up lines get worse every day, you know that?"

"They're still workin'?"

Castiel nodded. "You have no idea, really no idea." He muttered hoarsely, pushing his lover to the bed. The photos Castiel took during the next few hours were exclusively for private use. The kind of pictures that need to be hidden in the depths of an external hard drive protected by six passwords and complicated file paths.

Or to be printed in 4x3 and displayed above the entrance telephone.

(No matter how Dean stormed, begged and tried to take down himself the black and white photography of his very naked and very recognizable body among the crumpled sheets, the picture remained in place.)

When Dean left the room to get a drink of water it took him some seconds before noticing the small ball of crumpled fur who had settled and fallen asleep against the door until they open to her. The kitten whom Castiel had renamed Chevy emitted a vague protest to be pushed into the hallway and then followed him, waddling into the kitchen and back to the bedroom. Dean slipped into bed again, naturally snuggling up to Castiel while the kitten was sitting beside the bed, whining.

"Climb up, idiot!" Castiel grumbled, straightening up to retrieve the glass Dean had just placed on the nightstand. But the animal didn't appear to move as if she knew she would just look ridiculous if she tried to cling to the blanket to climb on the bed. She began to mew of her little baby pitched voice until Dean, annoyed, brings an arm out of bed to raise her onto it and secure her on the blanket between them. Castiel had resettled, head between the pillows, Dean's arm across his stomach, the hand of the singer resting on his hip. Chevy began an almost subtle crawling movement in search of a more comfortable place to sleep while from Castiel's phone raised the first notes of "Stairway to Heaven".

There probably was a time when they didn't regularly fall asleep during the eight minute song. But they kept coming back to it. It was a comfortable habit, not really ritualized. Rather a kind of code between them, a way of saying goodnight without a word, even when they settled only for a nap. The kitten finally settled on one of the pillows, her nose buried in the neck of Castiel, rolled into a small purring ball. Between her and the singer who had rested his head against his ribs, the young man had the impression of being a pillow. He smiled, feeling suddenly Dean's shoulders relax under his fingers, a sign that the singer was beginning to fall asleep.

As he slid himself into sleep, he thought to himself that he was incredibly happy. Few things could change this because unlike most people, Castiel honestly believed that nothing could prevent him from loving Dean, nor from being loved by him in return. No matter what life would bring them, they were an objective fact that wouldn't change, as a founding pillar of their little universe.

It was a practical certainty a little helped by fatigue and the cat's purring that evolved gradually into will.

When the phone ringing woke them two hours later, Castiel had a new project in mind.

"_There is what is_

_And what should never be_

_What made my past now only is_

_The long road leading me where I'm supposed to be_"

##

Dorothy and Madison had spent much time together due to the circumstances, and seen a lot of bad movies out of boredom. But they agreed to decree that Green Lantern was the worst. And by far.

The hotel's lounge where roadies had gathered for their day off after Christmas was suddenly populated by people criticizing the film and some who were trying to defend it, passing around cinnamon donuts boxes.

"After this tour I can never eat any one of those things again!" Madison commented, biting in her fourth donut of the afternoon.

"After this tour, you and I do a salad binge." Dorothy replied, handing her a cup of coffee.

Madison nodded while someone switched the screen on the TV function. Neither of them paid attention to the program, too busy to plot the next day's route and to examine the plan of the room where they would have to settle for the evening.

"Hey, isn't that your boyfriend?"

Madison only looked up when she was called out with a pat on the shoulder. The roadie repeated his question, pointing the TV. Someone had the questionable delicacy to turn up the volume.

"Sam Winchester, drummer of the group Free Will is ending these days a sentence of community work in an animal shelter. He refused to answer our questions about the rumors of his girlfriend's disappearance after the fight that led him in court two months ago."

"Wow." Dorothy uttered. "Give them another month and they'll accuse him of having strangled you with his bare hands."

"He looks capable of it." Someone commented in the lounge. A long silence followed while Dorothy was sweeping the room with her eyes. Madison said nothing, staring at the screen, ignoring the still full cup of coffee that was beginning to burn her hands.

On the screen Sam was displaying a tense smile, evading questions from journalists before disappearing as discreetly as possible given his stature. Dorothy put a comforting hand on the shoulder of Madison who finally took her first sip of coffee.

"I get why you left him, no celebrity is worth being roughed up by this."

Madison threw a look both puzzled and murderous to the woman who had talked and she felt herself physically bare her teeth.

"I'd like to know where you saw that he roughed me up?"

"It's in all the newspapers hon! Since his sentencing everybody knows what happened, that he beat the crap out of your ex and that you left because of this, that after he was sentenced to one hundred hours of work of community service and now he's free to start all over again."

Madison addressed a curious glance to Dorothy who shrugged.

"I may have hidden all the tabloids this last two months... and put a filter on your tablet so those informations don't arrive in your inbox."

"And you never told them the truth?"

Dorothy shook her head. "I never tell the lives of the others, if you want to tell them it's your problem, not mine."

Madison sighed once again, conscious of being the center of attention. She could remain discreet, keeping the secret as much as possible about her life, about her relationship with Kurt, the one with Sam. But it meant avoiding reality once more. It meant being a coward and she didn't like it.

"My ex used to beat me." She said without taking her eyes off the screen. Another report had started, but she was already struggling to tell her story, she didn't have the courage to do it while looking directly at her audience. The sip of coffee she took only did her little good. It wasn't the first time she talked about it, and it was always unpleasant, as if somewhere she admitted a weakness that she shouldn't have felt guilty for. "That's why I left him, and Sam knew, he knew from the start and he never laid a hand on me."

"He could have." Someone replied.

"Yeah. He could have." By saying it she realized something that made her smile. "That'd be his style, hitting before talking. But he never did. He hit Kurt because he was starting to harass me again. I think he was afraid for me."

She turned on the couch to face her audience, which made Dorothy smile.

"I left him because I didn't want to expose myself to any form of violence. But Sam Winchester is the best man I know, and unless you have something else than gossips to support your remarks, I forbid you to speak evil of him before me!"

"The best man in the world didn't try to hold you back yet, it could be that he didn't like you that much."

Dorothy could have hit the person who had just spoken but Madison's smile stopped her. That wasn't the half-predatory grin she usually displayed, it was quieter and softer, as if Madison was realizing something as she was speaking. She had an expression on her face that Dorothy envied her because it was the expression of a revelation she would have liked to experiment herself.

"Precisely. He let me go. He didn't try to dissuade me from doing it, didn't try to contact me or to look for me. If you think it's romantic to chase after a girl who told you no, you're slipping up. It's terrifying. He didn't look for me, he didn't try to lay what he did on Kurt. He behaved like a decent human being." Madison leaned back into the couch, finishing her coffee, eyes again on the screen. "And it must have cost him a lot." She finished softly as if she was speaking more to the television than to anyone else.

There was a moment of silence and then everybody changed the subject as by common agreement. Dorothy had sat down on the arm of the couch and was wondering if what Madison had said could apply to Charlie?

No. Charlie and Sam were two different people, and knowing that the bassist hadn't looked to reach her implied something quite different. Charlie had tried to hold her back as much as she could, but presented with a fait accompli, she wasn't the type to fight for lost causes.

Dorothy had been avoiding for two months to think about how she had left, getting silently out of Charlie's bed, throwing her things into a bag, before writing a few words of break up on a small paper she had left on the corner of the table. It was cowardly and inelegant, rather disgraceful of her to be honest. But Charlie would have managed to hold her back. Despite all the good reasons that Dorothy had to leave, she would have managed to hold her back and make her change her mind.

But getting up after her… Dorothy could imagine her reaction. First to call her, to look for her and shrug, thinking she would eventually return. Then she had probably found the note on the table, had sat down to read it several times, may be crumple it, throw it away, scream, check her phone, try to contact her before giving up. All this, Dorothy could almost see and hear it in her head. She could even imagine the desolation of Charlie, the feeling of betrayal, the pain, and loneliness. The abandonment.

"What are you thinking about?" Madison asked as if Dorothy was lost in thought for a while.

"I think I understand Sam. By attacking Kurt he became what you feared most, and I did the same with Charlie. I left her alone. What she hates most, I'm subjecting her to it."

"You can change that you know. You can quit work, go back there and tell her everything."

Dorothy had a bitter grin. "Don't you think they have enough problems like that? Dean and Sam will take care of her, once things have subsided, I'll tell her."

"That's just a cop." Madison said through her teeth.

"You think I'm wrong?"

The other nodded. "Lying is always wrong."

"I'm protecting her, that's different."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"_We are the thing that should never be,_

_We don't deserve it, it was too easy,_

_But there seems to be_

_Strings between us I cannot see,_

_Constantly pulling you toward me,_

_For we are what is,_

_Even if we should never be_"

##

"You asked me to protect him. This should solve the problem." Castiel said, handing a recording to Crowley. "Organize a concert, one or two months before the release of the album, we diffuse it there, the group will benefit from the publicity it will generate, and that should keep them safe."

Crowley regarded the CD thoughtfully. "This is a risky bet. It could ruin the group before even the release of the album."

Castiel smiled and clasped his hands on his lap. "When's the last time a juicy story ruined a group career?"

Crowley sighed and nodded before placing the object in a desk drawer. "Obviously you love risk." He commented. Castiel nodded.

"I am well placed to know that avoiding trouble doesn't stop it of happening."

He was still thinking about the phrase that evening when leaving work. In the office were still lying some remains from the leaving do of the intern whom he wouldn't regret. He hadn't touched it and was starving. The recording of the album was coming to an end, leaving more time to the group to start the promoting phase and have a life of their own. Kevin occupied his time in round trips to Michigan and trying to convince Channing to come and play the strings with him during some special events of the tour, without success. Sam and Charlie spent much of their evenings to put the world to rights around sushi platters of a quality that Castiel found questionable.

That evening, instead of going home, he walked to the garage where Dean had repatriated his father's Impala. He was keen to repair it himself. He had a kind of intuition for mechanics that allowed him to progress gradually, with the help and tools of the mechanics from the garage. Castiel was vaguely beginning to understand how a grease monkey could be sexy, but he suspected himself of being slightly partial on the subject.

"A surprise? And you plan it months in advance?" Dean grouched, hands resting on the hood, trying to locate a leak in… Actually Castiel didn't know in what and he didn't care. "We're not goin' on tour before the end of next year."

"It could be earlier, I talked to Crowley, he thinks like me that giving a brief overview of the live album before it's released in would boost sales."

Dean looked up from the piece of mechanic to stare at Castiel who was carefully avoiding his gaze. "You put Crowley in the swim?"

The young man nodded. "I didn't have much other choice if I wanted to do that before next year."

"What, you gonna propose me?" Dean joked, starting to wipe his hands with a rag. Castiel raised his eyes to heaven.

"Don't be stupid!"

"Then what's the rush?"

"It's just that..." Castiel hesitated an instant before talking. "You know I don't like to waste time. Everything already goes enough slowly or too fast like that... So would you accept that I put a bit extra in your next concert?"

Dean stared at him a moment before nodding. "Is there something you're not telling me? Does what you wanna do involves a recur of... you know?"

"The disease? No. I'm fine. Really fine, I would tell you if that wasn't the case. Just... Trust me okay?"

Dean nodded and leaned against the wrecked car framework. The garage wasn't heated and as soon as he stopped moving, he began to feel cold unlike Castiel, wrapped in his trench coat.

"Ya know," Dean said softly. "Deep down I like it."

"My disease?"

The singer nodded. "It never let me the opportunity to know you by heart, because it makes you change all the time. You put on and drop weight quickly, your skin never has the same texture or color, I even come to love the bruises you get each time you bang into a corner table."

Castiel frowned, clearly annoyed. "You're aware that you're romanticizing my illness and it's definitely not something romantic?"

Dean nodded again. "At first I hated it even more than you do. Because it scared me as hell. What would happen if one day I couldn't find you in the crowd? If you died alone in a hospital bed far from home? Then we got together and I remember..." He paused.

"You remember what?"

"The scar. I really thought for a moment that you had broken your collarbone when you were a kid or something like that. Then I realized this was where was the implantable chamber for chemo. And I hated this disease. I hated all the suffering it inflicted you when you were just a kid because some God had decided you'd be sick. And more than anything, I hated that it made you think that I was the best thing that had ever happened to you."

"But you are the best thing that's ever happened to me! You gave me a purpose in life when I had nothing else."

This time, Dean shook his head.

"That's where you're wrong. You held out until you were fifteen without me. After, maybe my music saved you, maybe it gave you the strength to continue, and yes, I gave my marrow and it saved you. But none of this was a conscious decision on my part. Life has did most of it and you did the rest. If you hadn't wanted to thank me, we would have never met, and I wouldn't matter for anyone but Sam. Everything started with you."

Dean took a deep breath, he would have needed a glass right now, but he had something to say before.

"That's why I began to romanticize your illness, because it brought you to me. It made you the man you are much more than me. It doesn't define you, it formed you until you become the most important person in my life. The only person who can make me believe that I am worthy of something, the only person who can make me understand that love is more than sex or sharing things with someone. I like your sickness because it makes you strong enough to carry me when I cannot bear the weight of the world, and I also like it because it makes you weak enough to let me carry you when you can't take it anymore."

Castiel's face was still hard.

"Wow." He said. "That's really just loads of bullshit."

"Excuse me?"

"Do you hear yourself talking? Cause all that I hear is "blah blah not worthy enough blah blah". Maybe the disease made me stronger, and maybe I made the first move between us. But do not even try to tell me that you think you don't matter to anyone else. It's bullshit. And don't act like you never did anything consciously because I know it's a lie. I remember our first kiss and I could already hear you thinking "that kid isn't even over majority in this state, why am I doing this?" and yet you still did it!"

Dean had a slight grin. "You already knew me well back in time."

"Of course! I already knew the person who skipped school to donate an organ to a stranger, I already knew the man who got his little brother out of trouble after the death of Jess, I already knew the man whose words and music had touched me to the point of giving me the strength to live when everything had become unbearable. You know what form people? Not just their parents or the experiences they have. We form based on the heros we choose. And if you think I am someone good now, it's only because I formed myself watching you, trying to match up to you. What you love about me is what you should love in yourself. Not the disease, it has nothing to do with it."

"I feel like we already had this discussion." Dean smiled.

"That's because you are a dumbass who can't hear when I'm right!" Castiel grumbled.

It wasn't an argument, not really even an overhaul, even if the subject had come out of nowhere. They didn't kiss to reconcile. Dean nodded, closed the hood of the car while Castiel was carefully putting away the tools on the workbench. It was night and one of them was covered with grease. They said nothing during the half hour walk that separated them from the apartment of Castiel where Chevy was waiting for them, meowing behind the door.

"The surprise you're planning. Should I worry?"

Castiel mentally studied the question while pushing the kitten with his foot so she wouldn't run away in the corridor. Whatever he says, it would be half a lie, but he couldn't afford to tell everything to Dean and take the risk that he does something stupid.

"On the form, probably. But you'll like the content."

It was the most honest he could afford to be and Dean didn't ask more.

"_It's unfair, to be this happy,_

_Without even trying,_

_When others live miserably,_

_No matter how they're struggling._

_We are something that should never be,_

_And I'm grateful, so see_

_How kind life can be_"


	24. Chapter 24 : Apocalypse

**Warnings:** **swearing, language, John Winchester, brief mentions of lack of self-esteem, mention of loss, gunshots, gun violence, blood, serious injuries, depiction of pain**

* * *

**Chapter 24:** Apocalypse

_"Waking up on a street at the end of the world..."_

The words had come as on their own initiative and Kevin was rewriting them again and again, afraid to go further when Sam wallowed beside him on the sofa in their dressing room. He leaned back against the shoulder of the cellist, legs over the armrest, a foot raised on the back, neck twisted at an uncomfortable angle to watch over the shoulder of his friend what he was writing. It was not even the strangest position in which Kevin had seen him.

"Composing?"

"I'm trying." Kevin answered. He felt a bit pathetic, with a single sentence scribbled on the paper, in front of Sam who had already written many songs, some of which he found very touching. He expected a sarcastic comment that didn't come. The drummer had lit a cigarette, the smoke came stinging Kevin's eyes.

"Just a tip, if I may. Even if you think it's crap in the end, don't throw it away."

"You're not telling me to stick to cello?" The young man smiled.

"Nope. I think that if you have something to say, and cello isn't enough, Dean can sing it. Unless you prefer to keep it to yourself." Sam leaned a bit more against Kevin as if seeking a comfortable position for napping. "We still have time."

The cigarette smoke dispersed before reaching the ceiling and Sam breathed harder in the hope of send it up higher.

"Yet it looks like we don't." Kevin said thoughtfully, casting a glance around him. It seemed to him that he had never left the concert halls even if months had passed, and they were again moments away from going back on stage. Kevin felt too tired to be enthusiastic. They had barely acceptable set list made up half of old songs and half of new ones and it made him uncomfortable. He liked things organized to the nearest millimetre and this concert was not. The hall was very small, the tickets probably too expensive for the quality of the show they would perform, the album was only recorded at two thirds and there was on everything an amateurish smell that displeased him greatly. He had taken a pencil and paper just to keep himself busy before going on stage. "Now it's like having a countdown over the head before the release of the album."

Sam nodded. "Crowley likes to put pressure on his artists, and I imagine that he wants to be paid from the advance he made to us with the receipts of this concert."

"It'll be fun if that doesn't work."

"Don't worry for him, Castiel provided him a plan B. The concert is filmed."

Kevin swallowed hard. "You're kidding right?"

"Nope. Charlie saw the cameras move around the hall. We will soon get a pretty DVD with a nice and well smoothed sound."

"Dean's not gonna like it."

"Apparently he told Cas that he agreed."

Kevin let out a laugh between sarcasm and contempt. "He always agrees when it's about Cas, but here... He's playing Russian roulette and he doesn't even know that!"

"Thank goodness he doesn't, otherwise he wouldn't do it and we all agree that if it works, it'll be a damn stunt."

Kevin only half agreed on the concept, but he said nothing, returning to his paper while Sam was dozing off on his shoulder. The concert was the idea of Castiel and they had all agreed to play along, to not reveal anything to Dean apart from what concerned their work. The singer had made a point of honour to not try to guess what surprise they had in store for him and Kevin was still wondering if it was an act of faith or stupidity.

"I don't like it." He mumbled, staring at his paper.

"Me neither." Sam whispered. "But we'll have to pretend."

They had become surprisingly good at this exercise.

_"Looks like nothing has changed_

_Like the apocalypse was just one big storm,_

_But nothing is like it was before."_

_##_

Dean loved every aspect of Castiel but the fan did much good to his ego and he hadn't seen him enough lately.

"This is going to be spectacular." Chirped the young man, putting on a t-shirt too big for him.

"It's going to be a fucking mess and I can't wait for it to end." Dean grouched. He was leaning on his guitar and trying to tune it to his liking, the strings curiously loosened, which wasn't a good sign.

"Stop bitching!"

"I'll bitch if I please! I wasn't mentally ready to go back on stage so soon. None of us was. You know that I hate to submit a work not finished."

Castiel withdrew his guitar from his hands and leaned down to kiss him on the lips. "It's going to be fine." He promised with a smile. "Believe me, nobody but us will know that this isn't finished."

"Flattery won't work in this area Cas."

The accountant shrugged and moved away from him when Charlie knocked on the door. "The guest band is about to finish."

Dean got up with a nod as she disappeared into the hallway. He kissed Castiel again and this time, the excitement of the scene began to twist his belly.

"Take them away as you do me and everything will be fine." Castiel promised.

Dean had a sarcastic comment on the lips but held it back. They parted in the corridor, one joining the pit, the other heading backstage, where he found his companions. Sam was stretching, trying to tangle the hair of Charlie with the tips of his chopsticks, Kevin seemed uncomfortable. They were all holding hands when the intro music began and they rushed on stage one after the other.

Dean could have sworn that there would be a problem. Over time they all had developed a pretty safe instinct for when a concert would turn out badly. But everything went on curiously well. He appreciated the small halls, the proximity to the public and the silence whenever he began a new song. It was soothing and very rewarding to be listened to, for once. He sought Castiel in the crowd, aware that he had little chance to see him, the spots didn't light beyond the third row and the young man had gone so late into the pit that he had almost no chance of being so close to the stage. That was when he caught a familiar look.

The crowd was slowly rocking to the sound of his voice and the slow pace of Sam's drum as they performed a cover of a popular song. What caught his eye was the perfectly still man to the right of the second row, briefly lit by a blue spot. He knew the song by heart, his hands played almost automatically and it was the only thing that saved him from sputtering or hitting a wrong note. He closed his eyes for a second, wondering if he was surprised or worried to see his father in one of his concerts? John was sitting in the seating area for disabled. Arms crossed, his eyes fixed on Dean. From time to time he looked up at Sam, half hidden by his drums, then returned his gaze to his eldest son. The singer got up with a smile and turned to his brother, without ceasing to play a few notes that Sam followed mechanically to leave no blank in the show. The drummer raised eyebrows by way of interrogation. They were both wearing earplugs and headphones which would have prevented them to talk aloud anyway. Dean enunciated much as he could.

"Dad is here."

Sam frowned, not sure of having understood, but the expression of his brother's face was pretty clear. He shrugged. "Then be great." He said in an undertone, articulating his best. Dean nodded and went on a little violently to the next song in the set list, causing Sam and Charlie to lose pace. They looked at each other and changed their melodic line by mutual agreement, this time it was Dean who lost the thread and threw them a surprised look.

Someone handed a microphone to Kevin, who rose from his seat with a smile. "We had mentioned a surprise." He said to test the acoustics. The echo of his voice in the hall displeased him but there was not time to change the settings for his personal preferences. Dean smiled and took his mic from its stand, casting a glance at the audience that was clapped hands.

"I don't know what he's talking about, and I have nothing to do with it."

Audience laughter. Above them a large screen lit up, Charlie and Sam left their position and seated themselves on the stage, back half turned to the public to watch the screen. The soundtrack of the recording filled the pseudo silence in the hall.

"Sit down too, it's not interesting enough to stay upright." Sam said after retrieving Kevin's mic. No one in the audience sat and he shrugged.

On the screen was displayed a video made surreptitiously between two recording sessions, by the studio door. Dean looked tired, sitting on the old sofa in the studio with Kevin who was beginning to fall asleep by his side. The beginning of the sentence has been edited out, or maybe it hadn't been recorded.

_"That's what is required of you in the end. You make yourself up, you pretend, you do your show to people who will never know how hard it is. And you smile. Cause you have the best job in the world and you don't have the right to be miserable. So you make as if until "as if" has become your only reality. And it's exhausting, you know..."_

The video gave way to pictures, most of which were failed attempts of Castiel for the sleeve of the double album, others came from the personal collections of the band, interspersed with more or less long shots of them all, on the road, at home, elsewhere. Dean found himself smiling, forgetting for a second where he was and the role of fearless leader he adopted every time he took the stage.

Then Castiel appeared on the screen and the singer started, which made Kevin smile. He wore a shirt so white it had to result from a default setting of display contrast. He had bags under the eyes and scruffy hair. A strange mix of the dishevelled fan that Dean saw on tour and the very neat and tidy accountant who left him in the morning.

_"My name is Castiel. No one here knows me. But I guess a lot of people here tonight can relate to what I have to say."_

Dean felt a lump coming in his throat, Charlie slightly nudged him in the shoulder, which he retorted by tousling her hair, swearing under his breath. On the screen, imperturbable, Castiel continued to talk over the murmurs of the crowd.

_"It is said that one hides more easily in bright light than anywhere else, that one never sees what is before their eyes. This may be why few people know who are really their idols. This may be why we made this video, so that people here tonight know who is Dean Winchester."_

There were screams from the crowd and Dean turned, his microphone in hand while Castiel's image on the screen was fading. "Nobody told me it was my birthday." He joked. Then he turned back to the screen where Kevin had taken the floor. He was standing in the exact spot where Castiel had taken the picture of him that would figure on the acoustic album.

_"I had almost dropped music. I had already dropped my academic career and I thought I just wasn't good enough in anything to live my dreams. And then I auditioned for this group. And I'm still there. Many people say that music saved them in one way or another and they are right. Me, music saved me because it gave me a purpose again."_

Dean clutched Kevin against himself while Charlie was displayed on the screen. No one was longer talking in the public and Dean was beginning to fear a little what would come next.

_"One day I lost everything. In one go. My family, my work, the friends I had… well I guess they weren't really my friends... The music, I didn't care. From that day what I remember is that you had a pink umbrella and you told me "if you need a job we need a bassist". This is the worst story ever. Music saved me when I had asked nothing to it, when it meant nothing to me. The music, that day, it was Dean and his unbearable habit of never abandoning anyone."_

Dean turned to the bassist who was hiding behind her bangs and returned her nudge, muttering "idiot" in hushed tones, which made her smile.

_"We probably should have never come to this."_ Said Sam, now in the screen. _"We did this by accident because we had nothing else to cling to. And for one reason or another, it worked. I think it's because of Dean. Because he believes in it twice stronger than anyone."_

Dean decreed that he wouldn't cry. He promised himself in his heart of hearts, knowing full well that it was a lost cause. He could no longer hear the giggles from the crowd nor their screams. He simply thought to himself that he was pleased that John sees it. Yes, Dean might be a total disappointment, John probably saw him as a mistake. But he was alone with his resentment and misplaced ideals while Dean was now sitting on a stage, surrounded by the people he loved most in the world and who paid him off a hundredfold. It wasn't worth the esteem of his father, but it was still incredibly good.

Castiel came back on the screen. _"When I was fifteen, an act of generosity saved my life. When I turned eighteen, it's to music, your music that I clinged, and it hasn't stopped since. And if it can help just one person to smile one more day, it will be worth every effort. No one really sees the musician, because it's the music that counts, but it counts more than anything for some people."_

There was a pause, and Sam's voice rose into the loudspeakers, he was probably behind the camera. _"Finish your text."_

Castiel smiled.

_"I know this is not how you were planning it, but you know I'm a control freak. People who love each other give pet names to each other and sometimes I call you my treasure. It is always ironic and it shouldn't be. If there is one thing that everyone here, you included, should know it's that you are, in fact, really the being that I treasure most in the world."_

On the screen were displaying other photographs, other short videos while the music continued at the studied pace of Sam's drums and Charlie's bass. When had they had time to record all that without Dean noticing? He barely saw them, didn't hear the noise of the crowd. He was floating in a strange dream, a smile on his lips.

The video gave way to Sam's serious face: _"I am Sam, you are my brother and I love you."_

Then Kevin: _"I'm Kevin Tran and you restored my desire to dream."_

Then Charlie: _"I'm Charlie Bradbury, and you saved my life."_

And Castiel once more: _"My name is Castiel Novak, and I love you."_

Dean became aware of the roar of the crowd. He stood up, trembling a little, he had lost his microphone and stole Kevin's while Sam was taking back his place on drums to fill a little over the screams of the crowd. The screen turned off.

"Hey, hold on, show again the guy from the last images!" Dean demanded, pointing at the screen. There was a moment of hesitation as the person responsible for the projection started the recording up again. The video paused on a slightly blurred image of a Castiel with a face slightly distorted by the words he was saying. "This man is somewhere in the audience and if he thinks he can get away with it he's really stupid." Dean smiled. "Denounce him and make him come on stage!"

Kevin and Charlie were laughing. There was a sway in the crowd while everyone was looking for Castiel and gradually like a small wave that was forming on the right side of the pit and the young man was half pushed, half carried on stage where Dean held him tight against himself.

"You're stupid, really stupid." He mumbled while continuing to suffocate him in his arms.

"I know." The other smiled.

The crowd continued to scream, Charlie had picked up her bass and Dean looked around for his father. It was a good thing that John was here tonight, the night Castiel had agreed to make their relationship public. The night everyone could finally see how happy and realized they were despite everything.

"What made you change you mind?"

"I'll tell you later." Castiel answered.

At this moment, some spots lit the crowd and Dean caught sight of his father a split second. As well as the firearm he was holding in his hand, and his gaze focused on them.

Castiel found himself thrown to the ground. The detonations briefly drowning out the music, the blood pounding in his temples and the cries of the crowd. He involuntarily counted two of them, but there maybe has been more. He didn't even realize that it was a gunshot. He grabbed the sleeve of Dean reflexively and dragged him in his fall.

Sam didn't hear the detonation, he was hitting his cymbals, but from the corner of his eye he saw Dean violently shoving Castiel and sat up in his seat to see better. Charlie stepped back and there was a second gunshot. How did he know it were gunshots? Dean had also fallen to the ground. The third detonation caused a cry of terror in the crowd and a panic reaction. He felt his vision blur, his throat dry up suddenly and he felt frozen inside.

Gunshots?

Who had shot?

He hadn't realized he had risen, stumbling on the microphone connections, tripping over the cables that roamed the stage.

"Dean!" Castiel screamed after pushing the body of the singer who was lying with arms outstretched on the floor of the stage. "DEAN!"

Sam fell to his knees, expecting other gunshots but only heard the noise of the crowd and a horrible Larsen effect because of the mics remained open. There had to be light but Sam saw nothing.

"Sam!" Kevin called. The young man had seen Charlie falling and had rushed toward her as if to protect her. She was curled up around her bass in an uncomfortable position and sobbing, moaning in pain. He took her in his arms, she pulled away from him, screaming. He had a hand full of blood and when he caught her terrified gaze he saw that she was pale and sweaty. "SAM!" He shouted again. He had no idea what was going on around him, he could have been injured that he wouldn't have realized, and Charlie was still bleeding, the blood beginning to drip along the sleeve of his jacket which hid the wound.

"DEAN!" Sam didn't know whether it was him or Castiel screaming. Dean's eyes were open, he was short breath and his face was tense and pale. Sam leaned over his brother, just enough to see the blood stain that was gradually soaking his white shirt. He felt himself panic and looked up at Castiel who was trembling.

"What's goin' on?" Whispered the young man. Sam shook his head, unable to touch his brother, unable to do anything but breathe too fast to try to suppress the panic.

Dean was in pain, every breath was like a violent stab in the ribs, it radiated him in the belly, in the spine, in the arm. His vision was blurry, his head spinning. "Oh God." He thought. "I'm gonna die here."

He tried to grab the hand of Castiel, of his brother, anything, he was shaking, opening his mouth in search of an inhalation that he was too much in pain to really take.

Charlie felt herself been rolled on the side and moaned in pain. Screaming was too painful. She was still clutching her bass against herself by reflex. "I think it's the shoulder Char… Oh Lord please make it be the shoulder!" Kevin said. He didn't hear the noise of the crowd, barely felt the footsteps of the first-aid workers who were rushing on stage to evacuate them.

"Are you okay?" Asked someone in orange vest. Kevin nodded.

"She's bleeding!" He said flatly.

Charlie felt herself been taken by the legs and torso and placed bluntly on a stretcher. She no longer had her bass and uttered a strangled cry of panic, seeking the hand of her friend. "Kevin!"

Through the fog of fear and pain, she saw him get up and follow suit the first aiders.

Someone pushed firmly Castiel and leaned over Dean, turning a light on his eyes. "Can you hear me?"

Dean nodded with a grimace of pain. "Hurt" He grumbled. He was also laid on a stretcher, someone asked him questions but his head was too heavy for him to answer, he wanted to throw up.

Castiel felt curiously calm. Sam was losing his grip before him and it was necessary that somebody does something because everyone was busy evacuating the public and the injured. He stood up, took his friend by the shoulders and shook him violently.

"Get a grip!" He yelled several times. "GET A GRIP!" But Sam seemed impenetrable, lost in his own moment of panic. Castiel raised his hand and slapped him as hard as he could. The surprise brought the younger Winchester on earth, he touched his cheek one second, blinking.

"Dean..."

"Ambulance." Castiel replied, pointing to the stretcher that was retreating. He took his friend by the sleeve and followed the first-aid workers who were still asking questions to Dean and farther to Charlie accompanied by Kevin. "His name is Dean Winchester, 32, blood group O negative, no medical history, non-smoker, no alcohol in the last… what day is it... not for a while." He reeled off after catching the attention of a first aider.

"You are..?"

"His partner. And his serologic tests are negative for all known STIs, AIDS included."

The first aider nodded. "Any family history?"

Castiel looked up at Sam who shook his head.

Someone was calling their names further, Castiel took time to realize that it was Bobby. "What the hell happened?" Yelled the manager.

"Gunshots. Dean is... He's breathing and Charlie..."

"She's gonna make it." Replied Kevin who was coming. His clothes and hands were stained with blood. "They cut her jacket. They say she certainly took a bullet in the shoulder."

"Who shot? Who inserted a fucking gun in a fucking concert?" Bobby shouted again. He had approached to make sure of the condition of Dean and in his fog of panic and pain, the singer still found a way to grab the hand of Castiel who had climbed after him in the ambulance.

"Dad." He grumbled. "It's my father who shot."


	25. Chapter 25 : Reversed Roles

**Warnings: swearing, language, hospitalization, slight drug use (morphine), mention of gun violence, state of shock, mention of homophobic violence, mention of homophobic threats, reanimation, emotional breakdown**

* * *

**Chapiter 25:** Reversed roles

_"Some people thrive in adversity."_

Kevin was hearing this phrase in his head, played in a loop with the voice of his mother. His mother... He should call her. But his phone was still in the pocket of his coat in the dressing rooms of the concert hall. She was going to worry.

There was light in the ambulance, garish neon tubing, and little movement except the jolts and the bends taken too quickly. He was still holding Charlie's hand, clasped in his, and he could not get this stupid sentence out of his head. He doubted to be of those who flourished in adversity, but he had to do something. Castiel was in the next ambulance with Dean, and Sam...

Sam had fallen apart, a huge panicked carcass unable to answer a question or to walk straight, too shocked by the gunshots and blood, and then by the declaration of Dean to still function normally. It was strange, of all of them he seemed physically stronger and yet he was the one who broke the most easily.

"I think it's gonna be okay." Charlie mumbled.

"You say that because they crammed you with pain-killers."

"Yeah... I almost don't feel anything at all... feel like I'll fall asleep." The eyelids of the young woman fluttered.

"Don't do that! You don't have the right to sleep as long as I don't close my eyes!" Kevin felt himself panic in fits and starts and the idea of being alone with the paramedics who were exchanging medical information over their head scared him more than the blood that was slowly staining the compression bandage on the shoulder of his friend.

"Take morphine." Charlie closed her eyes, and he stuck his nails into the palm of her hand to make her react. A paramedic turned a small light in her eyes and she growled in discomfort.

"How could he shoot you?" Was yelling Bobby in the car following the second ambulance. He was talking to himself. In the passenger seat, Sam was keeping his eyes fixed on the flashing lights in front of them as if the slightest eye movement would make them disappear. He really had trouble understanding what was happening and already there were blanks in his memories. "Hey, kiddo, you with me?"

Sam jumped when Bobby touched his shoulder and nodded without really knowing to what he was answering.

"Call Crowley, put him on speaker, he must know."

The order took a while to reach Sam, it took even longer for him to realize that he didn't have his phone and that Bobby was handing him his own while driving. He took his eyes off the ambulance for a second to dial the personal number of the producer. He had trouble finding the button of the speaker and felt stupid and clumsy, phone in hand waiting for Crowley to pick up. "He did it, he shot the kids." Bobby said loud enough to be heard over the engine noise.

"Bollocks!" Crowley had the sleepy voice of someone who has just been awakened with a start. "Is the accountant alright?"

Sam frowned. Bobby nodded. "He's okay... He's in the ambulance with Dean. Charlie was hit too."

There was a small gap in the conversation.

"Who's on the stretcher Bobby?"

"Dean. Dean's on the stretcher. He took the bullet."

Sam started to tremble and put the phone on the dashboard when Crowley hung up on "I'm coming."

"Idjit." Bobby grumbled. "Doesn't even knows to which hospital we're heading."

"Why did he ask if Castiel was alright?" Sam asked. His panic was beginning to surge back and adrenaline was letting him with painfully clear ideas. Bobby didn't answer. "Why was he worried about Castiel? Bobby!"

"Because of… the assault."

"Liar." The tone was so cold that Bobby took his eyes off the road a second to watch Sam. Even in the alternative light of street lamps he could see his jaw clenched and his fixed and cold gaze. "Tell me the truth."

Bobby sighed. "Crowley received threatening letters from your father."

Sam gritted his teeth a little harder. "Why did you not tell us?"

"The threats weren't directed against you. He was targeting Charlie and..."

"And Castiel. He was targeting the homosexuals of the band."

Bobby nodded. "But they arrived after Castiel's assault, we thought he wouldn't move into action. That he just wanted to let out his venom."

The hospital was in view and they lost sight of the ambulance.

"He was aiming at Castiel. He had his back to the scene. And Dean shoved him. He caught the bullet in his place but Cas was aimed for." Sam thought aloud while getting out of the car. He walked like a zombie to the emergency entrance until Bobby grasps his arm.

"Sam, when they arrive, let the cops do their work."

The young man had a rictus. "You think I'd lie to them to go rip his head off myself?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I think cause I know you son. So when the cops interrogate you, don't mention anything about ripping his head off or taking the law into your own hands! Neither you nor Dean need that."

Sam slowly nodded. Crowley's car parked askew on the spots in a screech of tires and the producer got out while the engine was still running. He looked both relieved, panicked and worried.

"You're okay?" He asked to Sam and then right after "He's okay?" to Bobby.

Sam had another rictus.

"You worry about me now?"

Crowley shrugged. "Sorry kid, but presently, Bobby and I are what you have the closest to a father figure. And do not think it makes me happy. Where are the others?"

They escorted him to the ER and Sam understood then how Crowley had risen to the position he currently held. He was behaving exactly as if the hospital belonged to him and he had every right to be there. The nurse of the reception showed him the way to the ER and the doctor that Crowley called out for news of his protégés answered him without even asking him who he was.

A curtain was drawn around the bed of Dean and Castiel was standing before it without taking his eyes off it, attentive to every sound that came out.

"How is he?" Sam asked, the doctor's explanations had been concise and quick. Normally, Sam would have understood every word, but not right now. His brain was a mixture of lucidity and fog, he was still shaking and clenching his teeth so hard that his jaw hurt.

"The bullet pierced a lung, broke a rib or something. They're putting a drainage tube to drain off the blood and everything should return to normal." Castiel answered. It was a nightmare, it could only be a horrible nightmare. And an unusual moreover. "That should be me."

"Finely observed, kid." Crowley replied. "Thank God, this isn't the case."

"Since when does my health interest you?"

Crowley raised an eyebrow, behind him Bobby sighed, starting to massage the bridge of his nose. The producer examined the profile of Castiel who was deliberately avoiding his gaze. He had a sallow complexion, red eyes and hands covered in blood.

"Firstly, if it doesn't bring down the sales, having the singer and the bassist in the hospital will give us a phenomenal publicity stunt." Said Crowley who could almost feel Sam rolling his eyes beside him. "But seriously, you're already thin as a rail and half malnourished, if someone should be confined to a hospital bed here, might as well be the sturdiest of the two. One who has a chance to make it, although usually it's your job to be the band's sick."

Oddly enough, he was right. And oddly enough, this was nothing reassuring. The curtain remained desperately closed around the bed of Dean and Castiel finally turned away, glancing around for Charlie. He first spotted the bent figure of Kevin a little further and, in the bed, the red hair tied in haste by a paramedic. He approached, half amazed that his legs still carry him, and bent to brush the temple of his friend with fingertips.

"Hey." He whispered. He had a hoarse voice, as if he had screamed for hours. "How are you?"

Charlie opened her eyes and turned her head to the other side.

"You're done worrying about Dean so you come check in with me?" She grouched, closing her eyes again.

Castiel felt his heart sink and Kevin gave him an apologetic gaze. "It's the morphine talking, the lady doctor said sometimes she's a little delirious."

"She's not delirious." Sam said, approaching. "She's right." He knelt on the side where Charlie had turned her head. "Hey, Char..." The bassist didn't respond. Mechanically he passed his hand across her forehead to move away the bangs glued by sweat. "Seriously, stay with us until they patch you up, okay ?"

"You ever caught a slug in the shoulder Sam?" Grumbled the young woman.

"No."

"Then shut up." Charlie had a gnashing of teeth and whined. She would have wanted to cry of distress and pain but every movement caused her stabbing pains up to the fingertips. She felt her heart beating more and more quickly, and she was suddenly breath-taken. She let go of Kevin's hand, she didn't hear anything, her ears buzzing too much for that.

Kevin cried out. It wasn't a cry, it was a deep scream of terror while Crowley frantically pressed the emergency call button. Someone pushed them out of the perimeter of the box and drew the curtains while someone was bringing a big red cart near the bed. There was no chair or bench where collapse and Sam had to lean on Bobby to keep from falling to his knees on the floor so much he was trembling violently. He looked around for Castiel but the latter had his eyes fixed on drawn curtain.

"Is she going to be okay?"

"It's time that you worry about it!" Kevin shouted.

"Dean nearly died!" Sam shouted in his turn. "Sorry I can't be everywhere!"

"You were nowhere!" The young man lost his temper. A person in white coat approached him to take him by the arm and enjoin him to leave, but he was still glaring at Sam. "Thank goodness we weren't counting on you to take things in hand!"

"Enough!" Bobby interposed himself. He took each man by the arm and pushed them towards the exit. Behind the curtain, a shrill whistle was heard and then a thud. Sam bit his lips and felt tears well up in his eyes. Castiel and Crowley had lingered a second to make sure they would keep them informed. In the hall the accountant passed them all and disappeared down a hallway as if he knew the place, ignoring the glares of Kevin, and Sam who had started crying, curled up on a bench.

It was curious, that he still remembers the path to the chapel. The place was never closed. It was a square, dark room, dimly lit by one or two altar candles at night. Castiel had never attended a Service in this chapel. He just needed to be alone for a moment, and, facing the small crucifix hanging above the altar, he felt himself at home.

And he began to pray. Eyes closed, standing in the small chapel, fists clenched on the hem of his shirt too large in which he was beginning to get cold, he prayed until he felt calm again. He stayed yet, this time sitting on a bench to gather enough courage to support Sam and answer questions from Kevin, after all, he had spent more time within these walls than all of them gathered.

But closing the door of the chapel behind him, he took his phone and dialed a number that was becoming less and less familiar to him, that of his home in Michigan. His father answered drowsily after a few rings, and Castiel realized that his parents probably had just gone to bed.

"Dad..."

"Cas, sonny... What's up?"

Suddenly, Castiel felt very small, very empty and very lonely. He would have given anything to have his father or his mother in front of him. A solid shoulder to cry on and lean on instead of having to bear things that were unbearable to him. He leaned against the outside wall of the chapel, pressing his phone in his palm, he was shaking so much that he feared to drop it.

"There was... There… Someone shot Dean. And Charlie. During a concert."

Pause on the line. "Are you okay?"

"I am but... Dean..." A sob prevented him to continue. "Dad, Charlie they... they are trying to resuscitate her and Dean... I don't even know if it's serious I..."

"Castiel!" His father interrupted him. Chuck Novak hadn't really been an authoritarian father, preferring to let his son leisure to do what he wanted in the limited number of days he had to live as a child. But sometimes, when circumstances required, the thin and stooped man he was straightened up to become stronger than an oak in the eyes of his son. It was exactly what his tone suggested even thousands of kilometers away in the night. Castiel stopped breathing one second.

"Take a breath, a deep breathe."

He complied. "Good. Now tell me everything."

Castiel explained, in a quavering voice, regularly interrupted by his father, who instructed him to breathe.

"They are gonna make it." Chuck decreed at the other end of the line. "If they haven't checked out yet, this means they are gonna make it. Your mother is finding us a flight to California, we'll come help you take care of it."

The flood of relief that invaded Castiel made him realize how much he needed help. Since when had he not seen his parents? Four months? Six?

"I'm sorry to... excuse me, I needed to talk to someone. "

Chuck sighed. "Stop apologizing, if we didn't want to be woken up at night by dramas we wouldn't have had children your mother and me."

"I'm just, sorry for causing you so much trouble..."

"Cas, son, listen... when you were little, you've spent so much time in the hospital that I was sure we would make a doctor of you or something like that. Ultimately the only thing that interested you was the numbers. Of course I would have loved to boast about having a son doctor. But when you graduated, I realized that as a parent all that matters to me is that you're happy and protected. It would be so much simpler if you had fallen in love with a girl. You could have had children and I would have force them to play baseball on Sunday."

Castiel stifled a chuckle.

"But the only thing that really bothers me is that it puts you in danger. Dean is a good man, and I know he would never hurt you. But this relationship puts you in danger, so reassures your old man, tell me that, for lack of being protected, you're more than just happy. Tell me that hell is when he isn't there. Tell me that you love to argue with him and when you make up, tell me that he always lift your spirits after a tough day, tell me that it's enough for you to know that you will still be together in ten years to smile. Tell me that he makes you more than happy. Tell me that this makes up for the risks you're running."

"He gave me a kitten dad."

Sigh at the other end. "Castiel, that misses the point!"

"No." Castiel smiled even though there was no one to see him. "No, it's precisely in the point. Because in ten years he'll bawl me out because of that stupid cat who loses her hair on his black trousers. And I will retort that he should have taken a black cat. And in ten years I'll still be happy to have still and always the same arguments. And the same cat. And the same love. It's worth it dad. It's worth to fight even though we are afraid and even if the situation is unfair. I promise that being with him makes up for everything else."

There was silence on the line.

"Your mother wants to talk to you. Don't keep her long, our plane leaves in two hours, we'll be in LA tomorrow morning."

"Thank you dad."

When he hung up, Castiel realized he felt again ready to support anyone that would need it. He took the way back to the ER when Crowley informed him that Dean and Charlie were in the clear for now.

##

The wind was rushing into the room through the open window, making shiver Dorothy, but neither she nor Madison still had the courage to get up to close it. The dream catchers were swaying, entangling their feathers and drop beads.

Dorothy had met again her grandmother earlier in the afternoon and had introduced Madison to her, enjoying one day off in their tour.

"Oh... Are you the new..."

"No!" Madison had hastened to undeceive her. "We aren't together... Sorry to impose, but Dorothy offered."

"She was right to." Had said the old woman. "I like to know my grand daughter's friends. And my granddaughter should give news to her mother more often! She's worried you know!"

Dorothy had promised to go see her parents before leaving and neither Madison nor the grandmother had believed a single word. They had dined and explored the house before ending up in the room of Dorothy, both sprawled on the bed, watching the decorations twirl in the wind without any motivation to go to bed.

"The next town where we stop, we go find a bookstore. I have nothing left to read." Dorothy stated distractedly.

"I got some two days ago."

"But that's volumes in the middle of a series which I don't have the beginning!"

Madison frowned, gaze fixed to the ceiling.

"You haven't read the Dark Tower?"

"Nope, and don't look at my ceiling with this disgusted look, everyone doesn't like fantasy literature!"

"What do you..."

A scream and the sound of a chair falling on the floor on the lower floor cut her short.

"DOROTHY!"

The two girls bumped into each other when standing up hastily and rushing to the door, fearing that the old woman had hurt herself by falling. But they found her standing upright in front of the television, pointing an evening news broadcast replay.

"That was her, that was her Dorothy!"

"Her who?" Dorothy grabbed her grandmother by the shoulders and looked at the TV. Suddenly she began to get very cold reading the subtitles that her grandmother activated each time and that were passing too quickly for her to have the time to actually integrate their meaning. All she saw was the trembling image of a brightly lit stage on which people were collapsing. Then people in tears who were testifying, in a small inset at the bottom of the screen on which was filmed Charlie, an oxygen mask over the nose, evacuated on a stretcher, her hand clasped in that of Kevin.

Madison already had her phone in hand but remained suspended by seeing the next image, that of Dean off on a stretcher, covered in blood. No sight of Sam. She began to shake. What if she called and he didn't answer? Or worse, he answers?

"Mads..." Dorothy had a lump in her throat, she was shaking and it was her grandmother who sat her on the chair she had just picked up. "What happened?"

"Someone opened fire on them. I'm right, this is your Charlie?"

Dorothy nodded like a robot, too numb with shock to feel really concerned. As if she was watching herself from the outside, playing in a film with a particularly implausible scenario.

"Answer, dammit, answer!" Madison was muttering behind her. She was pressing the hand of her grandmother while the images were passing repeatedly until another story take its place on the screen. Madison hung up with a sigh. Sam not answering, she called Bobby.

The gruff voice of the manager answered on the third ring.

"It's Madison... I just saw the news. Is everything alright?"

"Of course not, everything ain't alright!" Retorted the other with a small time of delay. "It's already on the news? Balls."

"They aren't giving any details, how are Dean and Charlie?"

"They'll be okay... For now."

Madison had to sit in her turn. She cleared her throat before asking the next question. "How is Sam?"

"He ain't hurt."

"How is he Bobby?"

There was a frustrated sigh at the other end of the line. "Does that really matter to you? You're the one who left."

"Bobby! He's my... Of course it matters to me!"

"He's a mess."

Dorothy tore the phone from Madison's hands. "Bobby... Give me news of Charlie!" She frowned. "I know I'm the one who left, give me news of her, you'll be mad with me later!"

The conversation lasted a few more minutes during which Madison saw the grandmother of her friend busy preparing an infusion with plants that she didn't know the name. She should have offered assistance to the old woman, but no sound came from her mouth, she had the mind cottony as if she were drunk and at the bottom of a swimming pool. The old lady handed her a cup and did the same with her granddaughter before sitting down in her turn.

"Drink before leaving."

"We're not..." started Dorothy, but her grand-mother interrupted her.

"Oh yes you are going back. I don't care what I have heard, I don't care that you've again left behind you the people who love you without any reason or explanation." Upbraided the old woman. "Your friends need you and you cannot help here."

"They won't want me. Ulisi, I left leaving a break-up note so pathetic and I… I'd be too ashamed!"

"Ashamed?" The other lost her temper. "Shame is what's holding you back? You'd rather hide here like the coward idiot that you are rather than swallow your pride for the sake of the people you love?"

"That's not what I meant!"

"Yet you just said it. You said enough nonsense for today. Even migratory birds care for their young ones!"

"Migratory birds?" Intervened Madison. It was strange that it was what marked her the most in the altercation, but she hadn't manage to hold back.

"Give me your hand, child."

Madison complied, puzzled, and the old woman smiled. "Hare... It's amazing that you've both become friends. And rather revealing!"

"Of what?" asked Dorothy.

"The falcon that is your totem is called the messenger of the gods, it acquired its knowledge from its travels and teaches us to look at a situation from all angles. Her totem is the hare, the totem announcing the change and converts it into stability. This change that you hate Dorothy, she carries it in her and she thrives on it."

"I don't hate change." Protested the young woman.

"If you say so." Grumbled the old woman. "Madison, do you return with your friends?"

Madison nodded. "Dorothy... even if they're mad at us... We got to be there. We can't leave them alone!"

"They have Bobby and Crowley."

"Rectification, we can't leave them alone with Crowley." She had retrieved her phone to contact their booking agent and inform him of their need to be excluded from the tour. "We're going back, even if you don't like it."

"I like her." Commented the grandmother.

##

Someone had posted a blurry video, with a sound excruciatingly saturated by screams on Youtube.

Someone had reposted it on Twitter. And some on each social network. Channing reposted it on the official forum of the group and crept up to the ER, where she held Kevin against herself.

"Everything is gonna be okay." She said. She wasn't convincing but he nodded.

Then she knelt before Sam who was trembling and sobbing, curled up on an uncomfortable seat and forced him to look at her.

"Blow your nose, breathe, straighten up." She ordered. "Don't act like you think they're weak enough to kick the bucket."

Sam made a valiant effort to smile.

At the end of the night, when Dean was transferred from ER to surgery department, journalists were gathering at the gates of the hospital, their coffee perfuming the air of the smoking area and each medical staff who ventured there found themselves assailed of flashes and questions they refused to answer.

The hubbub slowly climbed up the floors, spread through the hallways at the the incessant rhythm of the telephone ringing. Sam would have wanted to throw the damn thing, to put it away from him as his own cell that he had left in the concert hall.

"The cat is going to be hungry." Said Cas when the breakfast carriage passed the room of Dean, still asleep, where they were. Only Kevin had been allowed to stay with Charlie who was transferred to the ICU a few hours after Dean.

"Like us." Croaked Sam. He was thirsty primarily, but getting up from his chair to drink a glass of water... taking his eyes off Dean more than a second was not an option. He had no more nail to bite.

"Later." Said Castiel.

Sam nodded.

At noon, the security of the hospital evacuated the journalists and fans gathered outside the hospital. The flowers, candles, drawings, letters they had left were confined at the reception where someone took a picture of it. Neither Charlie nor Dean were awakened to see that, but Crowley smiled in his office. Not of joy. Not really. But if the kids managed to get through...

He did not further elaborated his thought. Thinking to more than a few hours away, for now might bring them misfortune. And Crowley reckoned that he had screwed up enough to do without the evil eye.

In the early afternoon, Bobby greeted at the airport of Los Angeles Anna and Chuck Novak, both tired and pale, and explained the situation to them.

In the late afternoon, Madison and Dorothy, driving a rental car, had traveled a third of the way that separated them from Los Angeles. Neither had any idea what they would find when arriving, and the radio increased their distress rather than inform them.

Madison turned it off abruptly when one of the group's songs was broadcasted.

"They'll be fine." Dorothy said. The herbal tea of her grandmother had absolutely not calmed her down and Madison was clutching a bottle of it between her knees, gift from the old lady who had also insisted that they take something to eat with them. The passenger compartment smelled of orange.

"I hope so." Replied the young woman. Then she burst into tears. Dorothy didn't seek to comfort her. She handed her a packet of tissues and kept driving.

In the early evening, Charlie dreamed of her mother.

In the middle of night, Dean dreamed of his own.

"Mom? Why? What have I done?"

Maybe it was because of the morphine, but in their two dreams, both women answered the same thing.

"Nothing sweetheart. Nothing. Now sleep."

They slept.


	26. Chapter 26 : Recovery

**Warnings: Swearing, language, hospitalization, mention and reference to gun violence, mention of rescucitation, emotional breakdown, mentions of John Winchester, mention of ****slight drug use (morphine), ****mention of homophobic violence, mention of homophobic threats, homophobic language**

* * *

**Chapter 26: **Recovery

Dean remembered the first time he had seen the father of Castiel. Chuck didn't look like his son except perhaps the curly grizzled hair that had been black one day. He had a poorly maintained beard, and wore a dressing gown over the ugliest pants Dean had ever seen. He had a cup of coffee in hand that smelled alcohol. That was years ago and Dean still remembered his discomfort in this house which attempted in vain to be perfectly tidy, facing the man who had greeted him by extending his hand: "Oh, so you're the boy who sings?"

Castiel had called him "boy who sings" with a laugh for weeks after this, and Dean had mentally asked himself if it was physically possible to dig a hole under the coffee table while Chuck poured him a whiskey.

The circumstances were different today, and even if Dean had wanted to, he couldn't have gotten up from his bed. He felt vaguely nauseated and furry. The sound of a quiet chat was rocking him. How much time had passed? A few days... He lost track of time in his room even though he was regularly reminded of the time. At night, the room was illuminated by the floodlights of the journalists who lingered outside the hospital, waiting for a declaration from Bobby that wouldn't come. The old grumpy insulted the journalists under his breath and moved them away from him with big arm gestures without giving them any news, more or less consciously maintaining the certainty of the fans that something serious was going on.

Dean croaked something and a hand laid on his shoulder. Not Castiel's, and the smell was not the same either, but maybe he didn't smell anything because of the oxygen blowing his nose. He had eyes so dry he didn't want to open them.

"Castiel will return. It's the middle of the night." Said a deep voice. The tone was clear-cut and comforting, something that, curiously, Dean had never associated with Chuck. "Sleep son, you need it."

Nobody had called him "son" for a long time. At least not in a nice tone, not with this kind of compassion. No one had called him "son" as a sign of affection since... He shut his eyelids tighter to wipe the image of his father and the fuzziness surrounding the moments around the shot. Chuck gently squeezed his shoulder. The singer fell back into a sleep induced by the treatments, slightly reassured by the presence of Chuck. He dreamed of the downright ugly pants of their meeting.

##

Charlie felt numb and the neon light above her head was very unpleasant. Someone was talking loudly in the room and it took her a moment to emerge enough to distinguish the silhouette of Kevin who was pacing, his phone glued to his ear.

"Don't talk about Sam, Channing. I know he's shocked, I too am shocked, but his friend is in the bed next to me and him... He's at the end of the corridor, whining on the shoulder of Castiel's mother! …No... Chan... No I don't understand!"

Charlie closed her eyes again. The discussion seemed to last an infinite time before Kevin finally shut up.

"Kev..." She croaked. Damn how her shoulder hurt!

"Hey... How are you doing?"

"We survived the Battle of Endor?" What day was it? Her head was spinning and she had a slight nausea that never left her for so long that it seemed to her she was born with it.

Kevin suppressed a reassured chuckle. If Charlie had the presence of mind to make reference to her favorite movie, everything was fine.

"I'll go and tell them you're awake."

"No." She stopped him with a sudden movement of the arm which drew her a grimace of pain. "How are the others?"

"Dean was shot, less badly than you I believe, Cas is with him. His parents arrived yesterday, they say they will manage the supplies."

"We're on a pirate ship?"

"What? No... You're confusing with wheelhouse Charlie!"

"Ah." Muttered the young woman. "Why are you mad at Sam?" The story of the last days was a puzzle she intended to piece together as in a video game.

"Nothing."

"Liar. It's rude to lie to a sick chick." Her eyelids were heavy, talking drew on her chest and it hurt, it also itched. "Well, hurt."

Kevin smiled. "He… I think he kinda lost it."

It was all he could say without getting to spill his venom over his friend. And Charlie didn't need this. She was already starting to fall back asleep. Kevin changed the subject and babbled until she sleeps entirely and Channing discreetly enters the room.

##

"Sam." The drummer could barely remember the first name of the mother of Castiel. Anna was a discreet and trim woman who did not attract attention. She was leaning over him and handing him an isothermal mug. "You haven't eaten since yesterday."

"Eating is not going to help me. No offense Ms. Novak."

"As is starving yourself." She replied by forcing the mug in his hands before sitting down next to him. It seemed to Sam that he had not left the seat of the waiting room of the post-emergency service for weeks. Actually, he had only been here for twenty minutes, but every second lasted longer than the previous one. He was unconsciously massaging a big ball that he had in the pit of his stomach, trying to find the courage to go down the floor that separated him from Charlie's room. He stretched his legs with a grimace of pain and took a sip from the mug. The slightly warmer than lukewarm soup was oddly comforting.

"Thank you."

Anna's eyes were fixed on the door of Dean's room.

"The nurses will soon throw us out, visiting hours are over."

"I'm not leaving."

"I know. Neither is Castiel. We'll find an understanding."

Sam had a tired smile. "I saw the nurse last night, she's not easy-going."

"You say that because your charm didn't coax her." Anna laughed. "As long as you keep a low profile, she won't say anything. We'll still have to be gone before morning."

"I just wanna be sure he's not going to deteriorate tonight. Her neither..." Sam took another sip of the soup. "It's good."

Anna shook her head. "Never say that in front of Castiel. He's drunk so much of it that just the smell gives him nausea now."

Sam nodded, realizing only now how much time the Novaks must have spent in hospital. "How did you do? All those years..."

She shrugged. "We make do. And we pray."

"I don't believe in God."

Anna took a moment to answer, looking at the tips of her shoes. Usually, Sam thought to himself, she probably wore kitten heels pumps, smooth and of neutral color. For traveling and for what would follow, she had put on ankle boots of which an undone lace was lying on the floor. He couldn't imagine that she might have sneakers, she wasn't that kind of woman.

"Want to know a secret? Nobody here believes in Him. Probably not even the night nurse with her crucifix necklace. That doesn't stop us to pray when we are left with nothing else. Finish your soup."

Sam lifted the mug to his mouth reflexively and stopped in motion.

"I said..."

"I heard you." He said. "It's just... This is the first time a mom gives me an order."

"You'll get used to it." Anna smiled. "And you're going down to see your friend. She needs you too."

Sam pressed his hands around the mug. He couldn't rule against Anna. But going down to see Charlie seemed too much for him. She would be pale in the bed because of all the blood she had lost. And he wouldn't know what to do or say. It was stupid because it was so late she was probably sleeping. But he couldn't help but think of all the implicit promises they had made the past few years. All the times he had claimed to be her boyfriend in nightclubs or on the street so she wouldn't be bothered. All the times she had dragged him to the homes of strangers in the middle of the night to jump from their roofs into pools that were not theirs and make him forget for a moment that he was lonely and miserable sometimes.

It came back in a loop with the shitty taste of failure and "I should have". I should have seen it coming. I should have been able to prevent it. I should have been a better friend and not remain like a coward one floor above instead of going to hold her hand.

It was a tacit agreement between the three of them, to stick together. Between the four of them with Kevin, to support each other when they were not okay. Between the five of them with Castiel, to not let themselves get down by circumstances. And Sam was conscientiously scrapping all this, sitting there in the company of Anna, too shocked to move, too weak to only try.

"I can't." He sighed.

The gaze of Anna weighed on him so hard that he had to look up at her. She looked angry as much as a gentle woman could be and he wanted to shrink under her gaze.

"I'm not asking you if you can." She said coldly. "I'm just informing you that you have to. I had a sick son. Do you think that I could, that I really had the will to come and see him every day in the hospital? Do you think I wanted to read him _the Neverending Story_ again and again because he couldn't stand any other story? Do you think Chuck and I could bear that?"

Sam lowered his eyes, ready to apologize. Anna took the empty mug from his hands.

"It's not about if you can do it or not. It's about duty. And it's your duty to help your friends. We take care of your brother, you go take care of the teeny."

"The teeny." It was a so odd nickname for Charlie. Sam realized that although she was two heads shorter than him, he had never seen her as tiny. And that it wasn't gonna happen anytime soon. In the elevator he hesitated on the button to press and finally choose the one of the first floor. Before going to see Charlie, he had a thing or two to do.

Take a shower, for starters. And stop by her place to find a copy of _The Hobbit_ or _the Neverending Story_... or anything else to distract her. Anything with a hero so strong they can overcome death, to ensure that she does the same.

##

On the floor below, Kevin's stomach was protesting in the quiet room of Charlie. He had not dared to leave to get food for fear of being prohibited to return. Her condition had taken hours to stabilize enough to get out of continuing care, she was no longer breathing through a tube down her throat and it was a relief for the young man. It was an image he was sure to never forget. He now understood why Castiel left the room whenever someone watched a medical show.

Real hospitals were not as bright nor as beautiful as behind the screens. People looked grumpy behind their smiles, tired, neon lights made them all grayish or yellow. And patients hadn't the perfect and calm sleep of TV shows or movies. That was a bunch of lies.

"I'm staying near her. The nurse said you could shower in the bathroom."

Channing was handing Kevin a pile of linen topped with a bottle of shower gel. He looked at her with eyes red from been too rubbed and looked more shocked than if she had offered him a trip to the moon.

"But if she wakes up..."

"If she wakes up, she'll prefer to see me rather than your zombie face!" Channing retorted, putting the clothes on his knees. He got up reluctantly and she took his place, slipping her hand into Charlie's. He smiled as he realized she was humming the introduction of a Beethoven symphony. The bathroom lighting was both too violent and almost useless. The walls were cream-colored plastic and smelled of lemon disinfectant. The water never exceeded the limit of acceptably lukewarm when he just wanted to suffocate in steam. He stayed there a long time. Enough to begin to tremble and cry a little the lump he had in the throat. Enough to force his brain to remember the time that had passed. Forty eight horrible hours that had seemed to last ten years.

Charlie had died, literally died between them on the bed of the ER for a few seconds. Only one shock had sufficed to revive her. The nurse might have explained to Kevin that her heart had just bolted, that it had never stopped, for him, his friend had died for seventeen seconds.

And none of them had been able to help her. None of them was here for her. Dean had Castiel, and Sam. Castiel had his parents. Kevin had Channing.

But Charlie had no one. No worried parents, no distraught siblings or even friends came to ask after her. Her friends, it was them, and Kevin blamed himself, blamed them all for encouraging Castiel in his stupid idea, for having turned to Dean, leaving Charlie bleed to death on the stage. He knew that he was unfair, that he shouldn't have been mad at Dorothy for not being here, nor at Sam for only going back and forth between Charlie's room and Dean's. But he couldn't help it. He had to evacuate his anger and fear, and for now, he blamed everybody. The shower didn't calm him.

Sam was seated next to Channing and pressing Charlie's hand when he came into the room and a lump of resentment went up in his throat.

"You don't need to be here." He snarled, throwing his old clothes rolled into a ball in the large bag of Channing.

"Yes, I do." Replied Sam. Kevin knew, just by his tone that his calm was only hanging by a thin thread he would have been happy to cut. Let's just shout at each other once and for all, let's just fight and let's get this finished with! They didn't talk to each other for two days, and now...

Sam was sitting straight. Noticing this surprised Kevin so much he forgot his anger for a moment. Sam wasn't sprawled as he usually was, his limbs weren't spread out all around him. He was sitting properly, legs tucked under his chair, staring at Charlie's chest, counting the breaths under his breathe.

"I screwed up." Sam said softly. "I didn't deliver... and I'm sorry for that." He looked up at Kevin. "You've been... you've been here for her and… thanks, and I'm sorry."

Kevin blinked several times, shocked. As far as he remembers, he had never heard Sam apologize more than a vague and polite "sorry" when he bumped into someone. The cellist sat down on the bed, shaking his head. Nobody said anything. Charlie was sleeping, pressing Sam's hand in her own.

"What made you realize?"

"Cas's mom. She made things perfectly clear. And you're right to be angry with me, she'll be right if she's mad at me when she really wakes up. But I'll do my best to... I don't know, to not let you down again."

##

It was the morning. Dean knew because he had heard the service door open several times on the nurses on duty, and smelled the breakfast coffee. He almost no longer feel anything but a sharp pain to the side when he breathed, and the pressure of Castiel's hand on his wrist. He took a moment to analyze how he had recognized Castiel.

Sam had his hands full of calluses, Charlie had some at her fingertips. The hands of the accountant were soft and he could exclude Kevin. The kid wasn't tactile.

Besides he recognized the smell of Castiel even when they were not glued to each other. And even when his clothes no longer smelled of laundry and his cologne had evaporated.

The young man had inevitably felt him wake up but he didn't move from where he was until Dean speaks. The singer had the distinct impression to put words on a very long dream.

"'m sorry."

It was dark in the room but he knew his lover so well that he knew the other looked surprised.

"For what?"

"Should have known he wouldn't stop. That he'd keep coming after you."

Dark was conducive to confidences, for years, the important things, they said them to each other in the morning, when they were still either grumpy of their night or half asleep.

"You don't have to be sorry. It's not your fault, nor mine."

"Maybe, but there are days when you must regret having fallen in love with me." Dean smiled. Even pretending to laugh was too painful, and his sentence remained between them, sadder than he would have wanted.

"None." Castiel replied, pressing his hand. "You know I don't believe in fate, I don't think two persons are made for each other. I think we find someone with whom we want to do all the battles, even the cruel and unjust ones. And I think we're fortunate, you and I, to have found this someone. So no, I never regret to have fallen in love with you. I am grateful actually."

"You're grateful for a bunch of crap, and it doesn't reassure me." Dean grumbled.

"And you blame yourself for a whole bunch of crap too but I don't reproach you with it. Stop feeling bad for things that are not in your power to change!"

Dean closed his eyes, sighing. "I can try... it's not likely to work but I can try."

"What? To change things?"

Dean slowly nodded. Even in the dark Castiel could tell he was starting to smile as an idea was taking shape behind his closed eyelids. He smiled in his turn. In all probability it was a stupid idea, doomed to failure and which would pass like most of his passing fancies. But it would have the advantage of distracting him. And sometimes Dean's passing fancies caused some very interesting things. This uncertainty was something exciting and reassuring. Something normal in circumstances that were not.

"Remember when you said that if my music could save just one other kid like you, it was worth fighting for?"

"You mean the last twelve months? Yes, I remember."

"If I wanted to fight for something else... you'd be..."

"By your side." Interrupted Castiel. "This is my place and I don't want to be anywhere else."

Dean smiled. "You'd take a shock picture if I set about to campaign for the limitation of arms to civilians?"

Castiel let out an out of place chuckle. His hand trembled a bit in that of Dean. "I thought you were going to talk about campaigning for gay rights."

"That too, but I guess shock pictures of that, there's already a load in all the magazines."

Castiel nodded. It was dark and only the snoring of the drains suction and the gentle hissing of the electric syringes in the room was heard. Maybe the stifled echo of the night shift discussions behind the door.

Castiel would have wanted to slip next to Dean, because for some days, sleeping next to one another was more important than before. In recent days, he really feared that Dean was gone when he woke up. He had pulled the camp bed the hospital had provided as close as possible to Dean, but it was not enough and he woke up in the morning, arms painful of having been stretched to the singer for hours.

"If it can make a difference for only even just one more person, yes, I'll take your photo."

##

"I don't get how he could bring a firearm into a concert hall! Aren't people searched before?"

Crowley sighed, raising his eyes to heaven in front of the police officer and the intern who were taking his deposition.

"Dear, you went to many concerts in your life?" He said.

"Hem... No."

"Security officers do a brief search because they don't have the means to do a thorough one, even for a small concert like this one. And in case it escaped you, John Winchester is in a wheelchair. One could introduce a bomb in a concert hall with a wheelchair and nobody would notice. If he was sitting on the gun do you think someone made him stand to make sure he wasn't concealing anything?"

"But the halls have special seats for the disabled, haven't they?"

Crowley and the police officer both shook their head. "Not the small rooms, they content themselves with making them enter by the side entrances to avoid the crowds and putting them a little aside in the front rows."

"The perfect angle shot. He was not likely to hit anyone other than his target." Summed up the officer who was writing the deposition down.

"A former marine never misses his target. Question is, how did he leave?"

"Taking advantage of the movement of panic." Answered the officer. "By the time the police arrives, by the time the security has calmed down the crowd, he largely had time to leave, wheelchair or not." The officer paused, strumming something on the testimony of Crowley. "Will you press charges?"

"As their producer, yes. The rest will be for the boys to decide."

"You think they'll..."

Crowley crossed his hands on his legs and seemed to give himself a time of reflection quite unnecessary because he had the answer to this question since Bobby had informed him of the shooting.

"It depends on who you ask to. If you want a complaint, contact Sam Winchester, not his brother."

"But it's his brother who was shot!"

"Dean won't lodge a complaint. Sam will." Crowley thoughtfully stroked his pants. "And I advise you to let him call for justice before he takes it into his own hands. The kid doesn't like people to lash out at his big brother."

##

The apartment of the Winchesters should have seemed too crowded, yet they didn't live on top of one another. Castiel's parents were sharing the guest room, Castiel was sleeping in the bed of Dean, and Kevin had collapsed on the couch without a glance at Sam. Anna had dropped by the apartment of her son and had brought clean clothes and Chevy who had just discovered she hated traveling by car. The kitten had curled up between the back of cellist and the back of the couch and refused to move. Sam resigned himself to cover them both with an extra duvet.

He was about to go to bed when someone knocked on the door. It was not the first time that night and he opened, ready to send packing the journalist who importuned him. He froze, mouth open, hand still on the handle by seeing Madison. She looked terribly tired, he probably didn't look better. And his heart skipped a little beat while his blood ran cold suddenly.

"What are you doing here?"

"I heard for Dean and Charlie..." She had a big bottle in the hands that she held out shyly. "Dorothy's grandmother gave us this. I don't know if it's for them or not."

Sam said nothing, behind him, in the living room, Kevin was beginning to wake up and the drummer stepped into the hallway, slightly closing the door behind him.

"Sorry.. I know I should have called first but... It went very quickly." Madison said in a low voice. "We hit the road as soon as we knew."

"We?"

"Dorothy came back with me. She went directly to the hospital."

"And you came here?"

She nodded.

"Why?"

"That's what we do when our friends have problems, we come to help." She answered.

"Dean and Charlie have problems, not me."

"Yes, but you are my friend."

For a moment he stood very straight, overhanging her of his full height, for one second he gave the impression of being a puppet to whom one has just cut its strings and who is standing only by chance, and then he collapsed, his knees seemed to suddenly let go while his whole body began to tremble, shook with sobs he couldn't restrain. Madison had instinctively wrapped her arms around him, dropping the bottle as he dragged her in his fall. She let herself slide to the ground, half supported by the wall, holding him tight against herself.

"It's okay..." She whispered repeatedly without really knowing what she was talking about. "It's gonna be okay Sam, I'm right here, I'll take care of you."

"Dean... Charlie... They're..."

"They're fine... They're gonna make it."

Sam was still sobbing.

"Everything's going wrong Maddy... Everything is..." He was shaking very hard, unable to finish a sentence, fists clenched on the arms of Madison to the point of hurting her.

"I know... It's gonna be okay."

Much later, he would ask her why she had come back that night and she would answer that it was the right thing to do, but at that moment she had no idea what she was doing. She just knew she had to be here.

"It's gonna be okay." She repeated.

##

The day had been long for Charlie. She had been told the last 48 hours by phases. Kevin and Channing had left only when nurses chased them away for cares. She had a large bandage on her chest and breathing pulled on her stitches. She had asked if she could keep the bullet they had removed but was told it had been thrown out. A surgeon had nevertheless sent her a picture of the object. She would have loved to see the bullet retracted on itself as if it had experienced an impact against the chest of Superman, but the object was black, intact and just covered in blood. She had to work through not being Superman.

Sam and Kevin had looked daggers at each other over her bed all afternoon until Channing, incensed, orders them to stop behaving like children. Thereafter, Charlie had fallen asleep while Sam was reading her _The Hobbit_ and had missed the visit of Castiel who had written her a note on a paper towel, which now served her as a bookmark.

Curiously, while falling asleep after tasting the bland hospital dinner and exchanged several texts with Dean, she felt tired as if she had done sports. Calm, almost serene. She was convinced that it wouldn't last, that it was a side effect of the morphine injected in her, and decided to enjoy it as much as possible.

There was someone in the room when she awoke during the night, and for a moment she didn't pay attention, convinced that it was Kevin. Then her brain informed her that she was wrong and she opened her eyes with a start.

"You came..." Suddenly, the hospital, the shooting, the two or three previous days didn't really matter anymore. It was as if all the excitement that the drugs prevented her from feeling was coming back suddenly, like Christmas and National Day at the same time.

Dorothy nodded. She had drawn features and large dark circles under the eyes, but she was smiling.

"I..." A big sob cut Charlie off. Dorothy took her hand.

"I'm here... Charlie I'm sorry... Please forgive me..."

"I prayed..." Charlie stammered, excitement melting into a wave of emotion difficult to stem. "I prayed so much for you to come." Dorothy felt tears well up in her eyes. The bassist looked so lost in this all-white bed. "I don't even believe in God and all I could think was "my God, please, do not let me die, not before having seen her once again, please"."

"I'm here." Whispered Dorothy. "And I apologize."

"You're staying?"

Dorothy nodded.

"Why?"

Charlie couldn't sit up to be at Dorothy's level, it still hurt her too much when she moved for this. She didn't move when Dorothy put her hand on her forehead to push her bangs aside.

"Because I thought you were gonna die. And it was even worse than… Than everything."

"Why did you leave?" Charlie sobbed. "I thought you… That we were good together."

"Not now Charlie..."

"Yes." Shouted the young woman. "Yes, now!"

"It's not the moment."

"It'll never be the moment. So if you came back to stay, tell me why you left in the first place?"

Dorothy sighed and removed her hand from Charlie's forehead to fish deep in her pocket a crumpled piece of paper she handed her. The heart of the bassist stopped again when deciphering it.

"It came to your house the day before my departure."

"He… He's the one who shot? He did that to me?" John Winchester had signed. Naturally.

Charlie had only seen him once or twice, and each time, she had had the urge to hold the boys in her arms. As if for once it was them, the lost kittens.

Dorothy nodded. "I was scared for you. He was after you because he knew you were with a woman and such people... I didn't want to endanger you so I left."

Charlie frowned. The relief and happiness she had felt when seeing Dorothy had lost its savor while reading the letter, and was now giving way to anger. It seemed to her to feel a week of emotions in the space of one short discussion. She crumpled the letter from John and cast a hard look at her friend. "You didn't want to be responsible if someone went after me because I'm a lesbian. But I would have found someone else and it would have happened anyway and shit, it happened anyway! But at least you're doing well, you can tell yourself that it's not your fault!" She yelled, throwing the letter to her face. "Clear off."

"No." Dorothy replied calmly. "I'm staying. I came back to stay."

"Shouldn't have left."

"I know. And I apologize."

Charlie said nothing for a moment. She was looking through the window the rain that had started to fall, controlling her anger. The sky was very gray and we could barely see the light of the rising sun behind the clouds. She remarked to herself that Castiel would certainly love this weather.

"The father of my best friend shot me." She said softly. "And the girl I love wasn't here to support me. I looked for you in the crowd, I don't know why I was hoping. And there was only Kevin. The others were around Dean. And me... And I was all alone again and I thought I was gonna die." She was crying so much she had trouble breathing. "I thought I was going to die Dotty..."

She felt herself painfully raised and gasped in the shoulder of her companion as she closed her arms around her reflexively. Dorothy was holding her to ache, she was shaking and she had a lump in the throat she couldn't swallow.

"I thought you were going to die... There was blood everywhere on TV. And I was so far away... too far away to protect you, too far to do anything and if you had died... People die in this hospital every day, but I forbid you to be one of them." Dorothy didn't really recognize her own voice, and she was terrified. She hated this word and this feeling, but there wasn't one more appropriate. "I've been praying the spirits since yesterday... I don't even believe in them, but if you had died..." She stopped, unable to go further, unable to support the green eyes of Charlie looking at her with compassion she felt unworthy of.

"What do you tell them?"

"Please, let me tell her that I love her at least once again." Dorothy began to cry too. "Just once again, if she dies, she must at least know."

The pain was just an unpleasant twinge as long as Charlie didn't move too much, but she needed only to move a little to kiss Dorothy. The hospital bed was less uncomfortable with her weight beside her, it was less cold, everything was less awful. "You're staying?"

"I'm staying."

"Why?"

Dorothy helped her to readjust herself between the pillows, preparing her answer. It had been years it seemed, that she hadn't had the right answer to any question.

"Because all my life I was afraid and I ran away. I was scared for me, of things I didn't even know whether they were true. And when I saw you jump from that cliff last year, I wondered why you were inflicting that to yourself. And now I know."

Charlie said nothing, she blinked to chase the last tears she hadn't the courage to wipe.

"When you do the right thing, you're no longer afraid. So you gotta test everything, try everything. Jump from a cliff, set off on an adventure, wake up anywhere... create your own fear and control it all the time. And when you're faced with something important, faced with true fear, realizing that when you do what must be done, everything stands to reason so much you..."

"You feel safe." Finished Charlie. "Because you know you're strong enough to face all the rest."

Dorothy nodded, a big lump in her throat.

"Remember, when I said people don't like girls who share an appartment with only one room?"

Charlie nodded.

"I was afraid of them. Of what they might do to us, of what you suffered. And running away didn't prevent anything. So I'm coming back, and I'm staying."

"You're not scared anymore?"

Dorothy shook her head and brought Charlie's hand to her lips. "No. I'm doing the right thing. For once."

##

"How did you put up with that all those years?" Dean asked while Castiel was helping him getting up and rotating to sit heavily on the big chair of the hospital. He was already counting the days separating him from his realease.

"I didn't exactly have a choice." Answered the young man, turning to the bag full of clothes he had brought.

"We always have a choice."

Castiel stopped in motion and turned very cold blue eyes to him.

"It was either that or dying." He rummaged through the bag again to take out jogging pants, he remained crouched at the foot of the chair to put it on the legs of his companion before letting him pull it up alone.

"You'd make a good nurse." Smiled Dean. The nasal cannula that he hadn't been entitled to remove dried up his nose and mouth. He gratefully accepted the flannel shirt Castiel slipped him into, careful not to touch the drains coming out of his chest.

"They will remove that tomorrow, and at the end of the week hopefully I'll take you home. My mother made enough soup to withstand a siege."

Dean smiled. He knew exactly how much Castiel hated soup, he also knew exactly how much he loved his mother and the idea of seeing him swallow this mixture just because it was her who had made it greatly amused him. Castiel sat on the bed, hands clasped.

"He was aiming for me." He said. "He had sent threatening letters to Crowley. And you saved my life again."

Dean made a face. "Yeah, and you owe me because this time it literally hurt me."

"I thought you were going to die." Whispered Castiel. "I was so scared... I thought I was going to be forced to live without you."

Dean took his hand gently, the one on which the dandelion tattoo was starting to swarm its seeds.

"I'm tougher than that." He said softly.

Castiel nodded. "I'm going to file a complaint against him." He said. "Against your father... For attempted murder and... I want him to pay for what he did to you and Charlie."

Dean pursed his lips.

"It's my father."

"I know. I'm sorry, but I don't care."

They were holding hand so hard they were both beginning to hurt but they didn't release their grip. It was like a reassuring anchoring point for Dean while he was slowly coming to terms with the idea. He had delayed as much as he could the moment to face up to the truth, but now, nearly laid up in a hospital bed, with the permanent drain pain, with the blood that sometimes moved back up along the drip, and the certainty that if he had been less lucky, Castiel would have died... now it was too real to be ignored.

"Your mother went to see me yesterday." He said softly. "She's nice. She's brave."

Castiel nodded. "Don't say that to her. She would answer that she just does what needs to be done."

"That's precisely what I find admirable." Dean was looking through the window without really seeing the scenery, slowly unrolling his thoughts as if exploring a winding path. "We'll never have children." Castiel was listening silently. "But if we could... Or if we'd ever want to adopt someday... You know what I would be most afraid of?"

"That they don't love you?"

Dean shook his head. "I would be afraid of not understanding them in the same way my father don't understand me. I'd be afraid to hate what they are just because I'm unable to be like them. I'd be afraid to stop to love them."

"That won't happen." Said Castiel. "And anyway, for now we only have a cat. No, forget it, it's my cat. I don't share her."

Dean smiled and turned his gaze to him. "Just prevent Sam to destroy the car. She has nothing to do with it."

"What does Sam have to do with it?"

"He's also gonna file a complaint against our father. And I don't intend to stop him."

"Until recently, you would have. You would have told us to try to understand him, or at least to behave better than him."

Dean winced. "You know... they say you see your life pass before your eyes when you're dying." He said softly. "That ain't true. I saw nothing of it."

"What did you see?" Castiel made a mental note of the ease with which he accepted the strange drifts of Dean's brain.

"You. Yelling at me that I had no right to leave you alone in this world."

Castiel smiled. "I must have yelled something like that yes."

"It shouldn't have happened. It wouldn't have without him. And I want him to pay."

"He will." Promised Castiel.

##

Castiel expected this, returning to work after the events of the weekend was... particular. The discussions around the coffee machine stopped upon his arrival, bringing him back in high school time when people whispered in the passage of the "guy with cancer". Some of his colleagues turned their heads away, suddenly very absorbed by the sugar at the bottom of their cup. The intern was there, and on the evidence of the attitude of everyone, until he entered, she was clearly at the heart of the conversation.

He put his bag on one of the small tables of the office and made himself a coffee in a heavy silence until someone clears his throat. The small records in the head of Castiel got a move on to identify his interlocutor: Bruce, from the Human Resources.

"Is it you we saw on the news?"

"Depends which news."

"The shooting at the concert."

"Yes, it was probably me." He said before taking a sip of coffee without taking his eyes off Bruce. He knew exactly how his fixed gaze and dark circles put people uncomfortable and he had no intention to make the conversation easier for him.

"So you really sleep with a rockstar?"

Someone else had spoken, someone Castiel was seeing for the first time. Clearly, this rumor interested everyone.

"I sleep with the person I love." He answered after carefully weighing his words.

"It's not very natural." Grumbled the intern in her corner. One or two persons nodded. Castiel was only there for five minutes and he already had enough of it. A better man than him probably would have decided to target someone else, but he chose the intern knowing he was doing it because he couldn't stand her. He just had better things to do than being a good guy these days. He put down his coffee calmly and saw from the corner of the eye one of his colleagues who was shaking his head as if he felt sorry for the poor girl in advance.

"In addition to being incompetent and spreading rumors, you are also homophobic?" He said coldly. "You really have every flaws."

The intern took a half step back as if he had slapped her and he took the opportunity to move towards her.

"I had a very bad weekend. The person I love and who shares my life for years is in hospital because someone thought it was "not very natural" as you say. And neither he nor I will apologize for this." He turned to his other colleagues. "And if it's a problem to anyone, just know that I don't do my balance sheets with my dick, and here it's all that matters." Then to the intern: "I already have enough work without adding the report which must be filled to get you fired. But until the end of your second internship, stay out of my sight." He hissed.

He left the office in a big silence broken only by the rustle of his trench coat.

"And how did it end?" Anna asked that very evening, hands gripping the steering wheel of the car in which were crammed Chuck, Sam, Castiel and Madison.

"Nobody said anything, and I didn't see her again."

They emerged near the junkyard where the Impala had been moved.

"Why does he want to keep that old thing?" Grumbled Sam. He had his arms folded and was narrowing his eyes under the light winter sun, watching the battered wreck of the Impala. "Why can't we just make a little box of it and throw it away?"

"Because it's easier for you than for him."

Sam gave him a puzzled look, forcing Castiel to explain.

"Dean was your father figure for a long time, and you know he loves you and respects you. But he didn't have that luck. When this story is over, hopefully, John and he will never see each other again. And he will only have this old car left to remember that upon a time he was the beloved son of his father. Give him at least that, he needs it."

Sam nodded slowly after a minute of reflection.

"We're still going to fill a complaint, and make sure he gets out of our lives forever."

Castiel nodded and went in search of the owner of the junkyard to negotiate the repatriation of the framework of the car to a garage close to the apartment of the Winchesters.

"He's right." Said Chuck thoughtfully while Madison was climbing a stack of old cars to settle on the hood of one of them in a hole stack the size of her buttocks. Sam turned to him, puzzled. Since their arrival, he had only exchanged a few words with the father of Castiel and he sincerely didn't see what he was talking about.

"Castiel told us how Dean took care of you since you were children. He had been more a dad to you than your own father."

"He, he thinks it makes no difference, that our father deserves respect whatever he may do... it may be easier for me, but I don't understand that he's so attached to him. He shot him for God's sake!" Sam got angry.

"This is because he clings to the memory of the time when John was also his dad."

"He still is." Sam said dryly. "That doesn't make him a role model."

"No." Chuck shook his head. "The dad is the one who gives out slaps when needed, and praises when needed. He is the one who stays up late at night in the hospital and who knows when something is wrong or when his son has a date."

"Yeah... My father no longer knows that for a long time." Sam grouched.

"Exactly. And Dean needs to hang onto it for a little while."

"It's sick."

"This is why you have to watch over him." Anna said softly. "He really needs it. And your friend Charlie too. Her, she has no one."

"She has us!" Madison shouted from her perch.

"Try to all remember it!" Anna retorted before dragging her husband in search of their son. Sam climbed in his turn up to Madison's perch and sat beside her. They were tense in the presence of each other since the day before and that moment seemed chosen to burst an abscess which was filling slowly with unsaid things.

"If you want me to go back..." Started Madison.

"No." Sam interrupted her. "Just... the situation is weird... I don't know if you came back because they got shot or if..."

"Or if I came back for you."

He nodded.

"I came back for you, because I knew you would need help to deal with the fact they got shot."

They said nothing for a moment and then Madison sought his hand on the cold sheet metal. "And I came back because I missed my friend."

"Just your friend?"

She nodded. And pulled out of her bag a book dog-eared of having traveled. "There's a love story that we haven't read together." She said, holding out the book. He frowned at the colors of the cover.

"_The Beauty and the Beast_?"

Madison nodded. "I've always found that you were like the Beast. Full of resentment and dominated by anger, and I thought... I don't know, that maybe I could change you a bit." Sam was turning the pages of the children's book without reading the big letters. "And I thought I was Belle, before I realize the movie doesn't end as it should have."

Sam gave her a puzzled look. "The movie ends well!"

Madison shook her head. "This is a forced end that brings nothing to the characters. Belle wanted a friend, someone who wouldn't laugh at her for being different. Not great love. It wasn't what she needed. She just wanted a friend and a library. I just wanted someone who wouldn't judge me for being afraid of the entire world."

"No one judged you here."

Madison nodded. "And I made the mistake of thinking that among these people it was absolutely necessary that I find someone to get myself back on track or whatever. When I just needed security. Not great love. Just not being alone and terrified."

Sam said nothing for a moment. He was turning the pages slowly and came to when the Beast saves Belle from the wolves. "I've always found the moral of the story a bit... twisted. Because Belle never falls in love with the Beast for what he is. She ended up loving him because he changes for her."

"She makes him better."

"Maybe. But if I were him, I would prefer to be loved with my flaws. Not because I've corrected them." He closed the book. "I haven't changed Mads. I have made efforts, but basically I haven't changed. And I don't want to."

She nodded. "And yet I'm here. I would love you perhaps less or differently without your flaws."

"I would love you perhaps less or differently if you had confidence."

They smiled to each other.

"Who plays the role of the rose in your story then?" Asked Sam.

"Music."

"So what do we do? Do we rewrite the end of the story before the fall of the last petal?"

Madison nodded and pulled a pen out of her bag. Together, they tore the last page of the book, crossed the words out and replaced them by theirs.

_"Belle lived surrounded by her new friends._

_The Prince applied himself to do good around him to redeem himself for his past selfishness._

_He made her strong, she made him calm._

_And they all lived happily until the end of their days."_

Madison smiled.

"This is the perfect ending for them." She said.

"And for us?"

"Does it looks like and ending?"

Sam looked at the carcass of the car below, and further, the office of the manager where Castiel and his parents were coming from. He breathed a big gulp of fresh air that made him cough. The car stack creaked under them. He tried to imagine the future. Something had changed since the shooting. Something in the attitude of Dean or Sam himself. The way in which Kevin stood straighter now and how he reassured his mother on the phone. How Charlie looked at Dorothy, not mentally undressing her like before but with a confident detachment. And the hardness of Castiel that showed just under his skin.

It was different, but in a positive sense, as if the situation had forged them together, a little stronger and a little braver.

"No. It looks like when there's nothing to tell because we're finally happy."

It was not quite true. It looked more like when the heroes know exactly what to do for the story to end well. But for now, he decided to stick to the happy part. The next fight would come soon enough.


	27. Chapter 27 : Trial and Errors

**Warnings: Swearing, language, reference to leukemia, mention and reference to gun violence, mention of hospitalization, mention of John's A+ parenting, mention of character death, mention of physical violence, spoilers for the Neverending Story?, PTSD, mention of ressucitation, mention of homophobic violence, (mention of) homophobia, self-blaming, John Winchester's pov, mention of past-underage sex, mention of drunkenness, anxiety attack, panic attack**

* * *

**Chapter 27:** Trial and errors

Sam's life seemed to be a succession of surrogate parents and it was quite uncomfortable to have suddenly several volunteer moms to take care of him.

Anna had filled the fridge with food portions carefully labeled and spotlessly clean that he had remained watching a long time after her departure.

"After the transplant, we had to be careful with infections." Castiel said behind him. "She kept the habit."

"A healthy habit." Linda Tran commented from her seat at the small kitchen table. She had almost completely covered it with legal papers, except for a corner where Castiel had placed his mug of coffee. Linda didn't make soup, she was not that kind of mother, but the day before, after her arrival, she had literally put Sam to bed after having decreed that he needed it. He had difficulty remembering the last time someone had tucked him in. Jess? At the time when they went to party after exams? He held his liquor better than her, but curiously, she was always more sober than him, and often he didn't remember having returned or going to bed. She had ended up developing her muscles by dint of almost carrying him in the stairs of their residence. The thought made him smile. He stopped halfway to the coffeepot, surprised. He was thinking about Jess and was smiling. It was strange but he decided not to dwell on it. Kevin entered the kitchen, hair disheveled and only wearing shorts.

Ten years ago, Sam didn't know the people who were now roaming his kitchen. Yet, he felt confident and enthusiastic as on his first day at Stanford. Castiel was looking at him thoughtfully while Linda was ordering her son to dress more appropriately.

"Dorothy is still at the hospital?" The young man asked, pulling a sweater and sweat pants. The state of his hair physically made Sam want to comb it. He poured himself a coffee and instead, on reflection, handed the cup to Kevin. The young man seized it without looking at him and sat next to his mother.

"Yes." Answered Sam, sitting in his turn. "Madison said we'd need a scalpel to tear her away from Charlie."

The little humor was meant to cheer Kevin up but it only got a smile out of Castiel and Linda. To hell with it. Kevin could sulk if he felt like it, Sam had other things in mind that the bad mood of the cellist. He was barely awake and already he had to force himself to relax his shoulders at the sight of the papers Linda was annotating conscientiously. He hadn't gone enough to law school really grasp everything, but he knew that the coming weeks would be long and nerve-wracking.

Actually, it had been a relief, the day before, to have Linda and Crowley at his side while he filed a complaint against his father and made his deposition. The producer had said nothing but had simply pressed his shoulder when exiting the police station. Linda had stood on tiptoe to hold him against her. He could feel at her way a bit gawky to pat his back that she wasn't used to it, and the idea that she had forced herself was more comforting than the embrace itself. But neither this nor a restless night had been enough to erase the bad taste he had in the back of the throat.

"You don't have to do that." Said Linda. "The complaint of Castiel will be enough to indict your father. You don't need to inflict the trial to yourself, no one will hold it against you."

Kevin felt Sam tense beside him. He shook his head, clutching his mug all warm between his fingers. The question was a foregone conclusion, it was for so long that he now felt stupid for thinking that things could be resolved otherwise.

Running away to Stanford had not changed much between his father and him. They had never really appreciated each other, and Sam had finally accepted that in the eyes of John he was only the little boy who was born shortly before the death of his mother. For that, he didn't actually manage to blame him. But Dean had always tried to be exactly what his father wanted, and now he was the one in a hospital bed "where the nurses aren't even hot". And it was unfair.

"I don't have to, but I want to."

There was nothing else to say. He could discourse for hours on the subject. On how Dean tucked him in as a child and made him believe that their father was a superhero, on how he had once again tucked him in after the fire and the death of Jess. On the times they had shared a dingy hotel room before signing at Crowley Records. On all the memories where it was Dean and never John who took care of him. This time, it was Sam's turn to take care of his brother, and he intended to do it well, to do it right to the end.

In the afternoon, on his way to the hospital, he realized there was something else he wanted to do well and right to the end whatever it costs.

He climbed onto the bed of his brother, bringing with him a few hints of memories of when they were small enough to sleep together in a child bed when one of them had a nightmare. At the time, Dean had more nightmares than he would never admit and Sam had never said anything when it was his older brother who came for a bit of comfort in the night.

He was surprised that there was still enough room for the both of them in one bed even if they had to fold their legs and Sam still had one foot on the ground, the leather notebook placed precariously on his bent knee.

"The album lacks something." Said Sam.

Dean nodded. "It doesn't make our hands bleed when we play it." He agreed.

"Nor the heart." He opened the book at the first blank page he found, there were very few left, soon they would have to change of writing material. "I think it's time for us to say everything we didn't say."

Dean sighed. "I don't know if I'm ready for that... we've already stripped quite a few times in recent years on stage. You're not the one who gotta bring his inside out in front of a crowd of strangers." He leaned back against his pillows, his arms crossed. "I don't know if I have to courage to."

Sam was chewing his pencil thoughtfully, nodding. "I don't know either. But I think it's worth trying." Dean knew, even before his brother looks up to him that he would have his starving puppy eyes, and that he had already lost the battle. "At least I need to try. No matter if we never record it. If we never play it. I got things to say..."

Deans smiled. "You've got no room left for a tattoo?"

Sam looked surprised a good second before shaking his head. His hair was falling before his eyes, too dirty to properly curl and Dean had to restrain to send him to the shower. Sam wasn't four anymore.

"Maybe I no longer need it." He looked at his forearms as if he had just tattooed them and shook his head, covering the ginkgo leaves with one hand. "What I've never said, I can bring it out now. Otherwise than on my skin."

Dean took the notebook and pen off his hands, settled them on his raised knees, his feet tucked under the thigh of his brother sitting in front of him. "Go ahead. What d'you wanna say?"

Sam was still massaging his arm. "That I did all that on my own. Falling apart after the death of Jess, hitting people or drums rather than trying to go through a period of mourning, I did it on my own. And healing too, I did it on my own." He looked up to his brother. "You kept my head above water for years, but recovering from something like that, you can only do it on your own. And I felt so bad that I didn't have the courage or desire to. It suited me to be miserable and to think it was because of her."

"What now?"

"Madison says it's okay to be angry, or to never get over it."

"That girl really helped you, huh?"

Sam shook his head. "No. Just, I refuse to be less than what she thinks of me. And she thinks I can live with that. Not fight against it my whole life. Just live with the fact that I lost the love of my life. And that it will always hurt. But it doesn't have to destroy me. I don't have to destroy myself for this."

Dean hadn't written down a single word. He wanted to cry and, on an impulse, he leaned to take his brother in his arms. He didn't take account of the sharp pain it triggered in his ribs.

"And you also can live with that." Sam said when he finally let go of him, pressing gently on the large bandage that he had on his side. "And you don't have to forgive. It won't make you... less than what you are to be angry and not accept what he did to you."

Dean settled against his pillows again, biting his lip. He had lost the habit of biting his labret that had been withdrawn for his operation, but it came back day after day.

"I'd like to be better than that." He said softly. "I'd like to be able to forgive him, just to be better than him."

Sam smiled. "I made peace with my own flaws. I'm not better than him, and I don't intend to forgive him anything. And that's what I want to talk about on this album. That you can not be perfect, you can have something very ugly inside, but it doesn't define you, and it doesn't have to burn you out either."

For a moment, Dean said nothing, he digested the phrase, savoring it, watching without seeing them the white lines of the notebook. Then he wrote the phrase at the top of the page:

"_You can have this ugly side in you._

_But it doesn't define you,_

_Don't let it consume you._"

"When did I blink and miss the moment when my little brother became a man?"

Sam smiled and took the notebook back. "I did it behind your back. Rule number one of little brothers: always do everything on the sly!"

Dean burst into a laugh. He moved closer of his brother, leaned over the notebook, and while the song took shape, while they softly told each other things they had never told anyone, their heads ended up resting one against the other. There were so many themes to address, people to evoke, topics to look deeper into. Enough to make a brand new album, too heavy, too intimate even behind the poetic turns of phrase. But they wrote them anyway, because just this time, it was them who mattered more than music. Music was just a means, not an end.

The end would come after. It would come in the form of Charlie's nods when Sam would bring her their songs to decipher, and the fan smile of Castiel. It would come when without a word, Kevin and Channing would begin to create a melodic theme for a song that later they would call "Cain".

"_It's okay to hate the one behind the trigger_

_But knowing it doesn't make it easier_

_When no one hates you more than you do_

_And you think you deserve the shots thrown at you_

_But someone may stand where you should be_

_And take the bullet you thought you deserve_

_Because when the darkness in you is the only thing you see_

_Someone still loves you unconditionally_"

Charlie left the hospital two days before Dean. Sam hadn't read her yet the part of the _Neverending Story _where Bastian discovers he becomes the hero of the story. Mainly because what they had renamed the Afternoon Story was frequently interrupted by visits from doctors or the nurse, and Dorothy and Kevin didn't stop punctuating his reading with comments which engaged them in long dissertations on the ins and outs of the story.

Chuck and Charlie had found common cause in explaining to Dorothy all the references and interpretations that escaped her and it were often the exasperated sighs of Kevin that saved her from conferences that didn't interest her.

From his room, Dean was grumbling to Castiel and Anna that he was deprived of bedtime or afternoon story.

"You're too old for bedtime stories." Castiel pointed out.

"Says the guy who never falls asleep without reading a chapter! No one reads some to me!"

Castiel raised his eyes to heaven, suppressing a sigh. His mother was smiling.

"And I'll have you notice, excuse me Anna, that usually stories are replaced by sex and _someone _decreed we wouldn't do that in the hospital!"

Anna made a face that would have been comical if she hadn't been so obviously shocked. Castiel buried his face in his hands.

"Your white coat fantasy is inappropriate and downright ridiculous." He mumbled.

"Boys!" Anna intervened. "I am open-minded but please, I have limits!"

"Sorry." They said in unison.

No matter how Castiel loved Dean, he absolutely didn't have the patience to give him a reading. He eventually brought him Charlie's touch pad on which they began to watch _Game of Throne_, which dissuaded his mother to stay with them at night. Subsequently, she slipped out after having kissed them both on the forehead after dinner.

The recording of the album had been delayed and the complaint filed by Sam and Castiel against John Winchester never ceased to arouse the curiosity of the tabloids. They almost had to secretly evacuate Dean from the hospital so that he wouldn't be bothered by journalists, and even then, there were cameras and video cameras everywhere in the street where he lived. Their photos were displayed in several newspapers under headlines that went from scandalous to indecent including a large percentage of pathetic. Kevin collected and compiled them in a binder every day bigger. They all went out as little as possible with the exception of Dorothy who barely interested the medias.

"I swear that if you had just a vague intention to make a coming out, this would be the perfect time!" Charlie said, temporarily established at the Winchesters' one week after leaving the hospital.

"The only one of us who can go shopping is me, as long as the situation hasn't subsided and neither Crowley nor Bobby will accept to go buy your pads, I'll stay in my anonymous closet!" Argued the truck driver. Charlie shrugged but had to own up to the realism of her partner.

Virtually cut off from the outside world, none of them really realized the extent of the phenomenon that grew around them, subtly fueled by Crowley. _HellHound_ was selling surprisingly well for an album released almost two years ago, the connections to the official website only increased along with the number of views of the acoustic session videos. Kevin realized more than the others. Sam wrote and composed a lot, leaving his drafts laying between his room and the kitchen. Dean and Charlie were recovering from their injuries while seeking a way for the bassist to be able to pass the strap of her guitar around her shoulder without pain. She was considering getting a tattoo around the scar left by the bullet.

She also happened to have nightmares at night, or have unpleasant flashes in the day. Panic and the sound of gunshots overwhelmed her from time to time and her friends had gotten used to not call her out for a few seconds before slowly getting her out of her thoughts. Dorothy was better than the others at this task. More observant too, and day after day, she saw the outbreaks and nightmares fluctuate up to become a constant anxiety when they finally left the apartment of the Winchesters to resettle in that of Charlie. The purple walls and the familiar smell didn't appease her panic and she woke with a start almost every night.

The date of the first hearing was scheduled and when she heard the news, Charlie sat down on the couch without saying anything for long minutes.

"You'll have to talk about it." Dorothy said, sitting down beside her.

Charlie was wringing her hands without looking at her and nodded.

"But I already can't tell _you_ about it... so the others..."

Dorothy nodded. "You've got time."

This was not true, now the time seemed limited before the trial. The recording occupied them almost ten hours a day to make up for lost time, and the rest seemed to fly by at an inconceivable speed, spent doing nothing or thinking that something should be done.

It took two full days to Charlie, but she finally broached the subject one evening when they had just lied down in the arms of one another. They fell asleep like that and always woke up when one or the other, numb, changed position with a grunt.

"I need to see him. I need to understand."

"You can't." Replied Dorothy. "Linda says that none of us should have any contact with John, as this will invalidate all our charges."

"Cause our accusations are poor."

Dorothy sat up and turned on the light. "Explain this?"

"The complaints were filled by Sam and Castiel. The two who haven't been shot, Sam was not even aimed at... It's poor, so poor that we got the trial only because Crowley pressurized the police. Linda is a good lawyer, but not good enough. Not if we get a biased judge..."

"Judges aren't supposed to be biased."

Charlie wrinkled her nose. "Yeah and fathers aren't supposed to shoot their sons but it occurs, go figure." She sighed, or rather took a deep breathe, winced a little and exhaled deeply to calm down. "Everyone seems to have forgotten but I was aimed at, and he had me. I was dead for seventeen seconds."

"Your heart has bolted for seventeen seconds." Dorothy corrected.

"Same difference." She was looking at the ceiling as if it was very interesting, mechanically stroking the scar on her chest. "But me, I can file a complaint for attempted murder and I have proof that he was serious."

"So you can't see him."

"But I don't get why... Why me?"

Dorothy shrugged, slipping under the blankets. "He's a homophobic maniac, you're lesbian, you really need me to do the calculation?"

"It's not that, it's… He raised Dean and he became a good man. And Sam too... how did the guy who made those two come to that?" She was pressing her nail on the scar, just enough to feel a slight pain.

Dorothy had no opinion on the subject. She turned off the light and held again Charlie in her arms, ensuring to move the hand of the bassist aside of her scar.

"I don't know if you were like that before, but you sound much like Dean now."

##

Henceforth, at night, Castiel watched the new scars of Dean, the impact of the bullet, and that of the drain, two points that would make white spots on his skin after summer has come back.

"Sexy huh?" Grimaced the singer.

"Almost as much as this one." He replied, pulling his collar to reveal the thin white line of his ex-implantable chamber.

Now it was frequently Castiel who awoke one arm around Dean, as if a crazed killer was likely to enter their room and that he wanted be sure to protect him in his turn. The singer had quickly established an impressive technique to sneak out of the bed without waking him. Anyway, the young man was so exhausted that he had to shake him violently in the morning to wake him up. He had purple circles under his reddened eyes and a sallow complexion. Somewhat less since he no longer spent his nights in hospital.

Dean had trouble to get to sleep and woke up a few hours later, mind clouded without the feeling of having rested. Often he managed to go back to bed before Castiel wakes up, but that night he heard him get out of bed with a grunt before feeling his hand press his shoulder. Chevy followed him, purring in the hope that something good to eat results from it, and climbed on Dean's lap to pass her nose above the table where he was leaning on his elbows while Castiel poured himself a glass of milk, silently offering one to his companion. The singer shook his head, sighing.

"You are here since a long time?" Castiel asked, checking the clock above the refrigerator.

"I guess so."

"What are you thinking about?" The young man sat down across from him and Chevy jumped on the table to sniff his glass. He put her down on the floor without taking his eyes off Dean, earning a frustrated meow.

"Charlie's gonna file a complaint against dad."

Castiel nodded. "According to Linda, it's going to take our case further. Our complaints, Sam's and mine, wouldn't have been sufficient to obtain a sentence."

Dean put his head in his hands. If guilt had a color, it had to be that of the wood table stained by innumerable drops of sauce and coffee.

"I should do it too. I should file a complaint against him."

Castiel nodded. "No one asks you to."

"But I should. I know I should. Not even for me, but for you. My own father tried to kill you. I should do it because he wanted to hurt you, because he has already succeeded once, and this time he almost killed Charlie too... He's dangerous and… But I can't. Cas I can't."

He had a lump in his throat and a big hole in the pit of his stomach. He heard the glass of Castiel land on the table before looking up at him.

"No one asks you to." Castiel said calmly. "This is precisely why Sam and Charlie file complaints. To prevent you from having to do it. To protect you because they know that it will be impossible for you."

"It's my job to protect them."

He hated when Castiel looked at him with that look of haughty pity he usually reserved for people who had just asked him a stupid question.

"You put yourself on your shoulders weights that nobody asks you to carry and then you collapse and this will have to stop." He took his hand in the middle of the table, the one where the wrist was tattooed with a rose to which he found was lacking some thorns these days. "You are responsible neither for us nor for your father. Maybe Sam and I have benefited from your strength to grow and build ourselves. And maybe Charlie and Kevin still need your support to get through their own trials. But you're not responsible for the way we conduct our lives. And this time it's you who need us. Do not insult us by believing that everything always rests on your shoulders. This is not true and you know it."

On the ground, the kitten mewed. "Even she agrees!"

Dean smiled. "You speak cat?"

"When it suits me."

There was a long silence after that. Dean was soaking up the words of Castiel. He knew how his companion was right but that did not change much to his feelings.

"I hate him sometimes you know. Often, even. I hate that. I hate everything that happens to us. And I hate being unable to prevent him from harming you. Especially when I know exactly what I should do about it."

"There is a difference between what you should do and what you can do." Castiel replied. Then he got up still holding his hand and led him to the bedroom to end the discussion. As they were lying down again, Dean thought to himself that this was exactly the same difference as between cowardice and courage. He could agree to have many flaws, but he refused to add cowardice to the list.

He felt sobs deep inside him without really knowing if they were of distress or rage. And no matter how Castiel wrapped himself around him and held him tight against his heart with all his strength, it didn't calm him. He fell asleep with the feeling of having a ball of tears and acid stuck in the throat.

##

The charges against John Winchester were serious and he knew it. He would have needed to be crazy or stupid to ignore them and he wasn't any of that.

He should have been afraid, or at least that was what it seemed to him, but he only felt a great discomfort and vague apprehension when entering the court. It was better than the smelly cell in which he had spent the last three weeks. They hadn't put the cuffs on him but the policeman behind him had made them more than obvious, which had almost made him smile. In his time he could have gotten rid of two policemen in minutes, weapons or not, handcuffs or not. But he had no intention of behaving like a criminal. His lawyer had been very clear on this point.

"There is no death penalty in this state, but attempted murder of your own son won't pass. Do not make things worse."

"I didn't want to kill them."

"I know." She had sighed. "Otherwise they wouldn't be here to complain."

John had acquiesced. You do not forget thirty years of military training like that. He could still aim. Even in a crowd. Even on a moving target. Especially when the target was in full light.

When he entered the courtroom, he found it curiously empty. That left him the space to stare at his sons, the redhead and her girlfriend, their Asian friends and the brunette he had seen with Sam. Madison if he remembered well.

And Castiel. For a moment he wondered why he hadn't aimed better. Or shot a second time to be sure to get him despite Dean. The young man was looking at him with cold eyes full of a form of resentment very close to hate, and a surge of animosity overwhelmed John. He had never liked that kid, since their first meeting, when he was covered with makeup and sweat, like Dean, like Sam. John had hated this image from the bottom of his heart. He had hated Castiel from the first second like a reverse love at first sight. He had spent whole evenings looking for his sons on the Internet, browsing fan forums with precarious grammar, finding too often Castiel in the background of a grab shot taken in the streets or near the tour bus. And that dated back to long, so long ago he could date the first photographs where Castiel appeared to the lack of tattoos on Sam's arms.

Sam who was wearing a light shirt and much less piercings than the last time John had spoken to him, and who didn't look up from his lap when John passed him. He almost wanted to kick his chair to get him to raise his head and assume what he was doing. For John, a man assumed his mistakes. If he took responsibility for the shots he had fired, Sam should at least have the guts to take responsibility for having filed a complaint. Take responsibility for wanting revenge and sending him to prison.

John understood. He would have done the same. Absolutely the same.

He felt the eyes of all the others on his back before sitting on the witness box across from them. He answered mechanically to the questions asked to him. He didn't have much to hide. And the audience, the judge included, was only waiting for one question that came soon enough.

"Do you acknowledge having shot with intent to cause death?"

John shook his head. He had had weeks to think about it. Before, during, after. He shook his head once again. "No." He answered calmly. He was saying the exact truth. "Scare, yes, kill, no."

"Why?"

This time, John took the time to look at each of his sons before answering. Sam had raised his head and he saw, somewhere behind the drawn features and clenched jaw, the face of the curious child he had been, with a vague echo of his little voice that always asked strange questions to which only Dean seemed to provide satisfactory answers.

"I have raised my sons with a certain values. Rectitude, integrity. I've tried to make of them people useful to the society and good men. When Sam left for college, I was furious because I didn't raise my son to become..." He looked at his lawyer with an apologetic look and she nodded for him to continue. "An overpaid bastard who defends the indefensible."

On the dock facing him, the young Asian stifled a sneer. Sam had clenched his fists so hard that Madison who was holding his hand groaned in pain. The redhead had laid her hand on his back as if he wasn't able to listen to John without support. He sighed mentally and resumed his explanation.

"But that I could have understood. Dean was my pride. He joined the army, he was good, he was respectable, he was defending his country. Then he was exempted from service."

"For what reason?" Interrupted the lawyer.

John sighed, he didn't like the word he was going to say or what it meant, and even years later, he could not erase from his mind the mental images of his son with another man. He suppressed a surge of disgust. "Homosexuality. Officially it was for insubordination and behavior contrary to regulations. But anyone who has set foot in the marines knows he has just been caught sleeping with the wrong person." The lawyer motioned him to continue. On the dock, Dean had buried his head in his hands, muttering. Castiel was clutching his knee so hard that his knuckles were white. John closed his eyes a second to erase from his mind the image of them both naked between white sheets.

"Him being gay, I certainly could have gotten used to it. Sam ending up being lawyer too. Then there was the fire and Sam's girlfriend died. I don't know why they didn't find anything better than going on the roads playing music. At that time I thought it was their way to mourn. I thought it would pass."

"And that was not the case?"

John shook his head again. Oddly enough it was there that began the difficult part of the story, the one where little by little, month after month he had realized the extent of his failure. In front of him, Dean had had a quickly suppressed anger burst and now he was glaring at him.

"I had promised their mother when she died, to protect them, to make good men of them. And I failed. They continued to make music, and after the arrival of… Castiel (the word had had trouble getting out as anything other than an insult), they never stopped. He changed my son. Dean was a good man before him, a man lost but good."

"Do you think Castiel corrupted your son?"

John winced. "I think when Dean was discharged from the army, at least, it wasn't because he was sleeping with a minor."

There was a burst in the audience. Dean went pale, Sam sat up suddenly, the girls seemed lost, as the judge and the lawyer of Crowley who leaned toward her clients articulating a not really discreet "what?".

"Explain yourself Mr. Winchester." The judge said. If he was surprised, he didn't show it.

"The facts are very simple Your Honor. Unless my son and him have waited years to have sex, they met when Castiel wasn't eighteen. Which is minor in almost all the states where they were seen together at the time."

There was a moment of shocked and tense silence during which John and Castiel's glances confronted each other. Something changed in the expression of the accountant which nearly made John smile. Castiel's rage shell seemed to melt into something close to interest. Something that made him lift his chin with a very slight grin that indicated his target had changed. John had already seen this expression several times. It was the one that replaced the determination on the face of a soldier defending a civilian when they were taking a bullet. Suddenly, the soldier was no longer protecting himself only, suddenly, it became personal. And for Castiel, the fight, whatever it is, had just become personal.

John left the witness box with a keen awareness of all the eyes placed on his wheelchair and Dean took his place.

"Did you have sex with Mr. Novak when he was a minor?" The lawyer asked Dean.

"In some states." His voice was a little tight but he was definitely not blinked, something John found himself admiring. He knew as well as his lawyer that the other party didn't expect the attack. But maybe Dean, himself had been aware of this possibility. Maybe had he shielded himself against such accusations. Or maybe he didn't care, which wouldn't have surprised John. After all, he didn't have many illusions about their morality anymore.

John took the time to watch him. He had seen his sons only a few times these last years and the photos on the internet might do him justice, they didn't show well the expressions of Dean. The photos didn't show the bitter fold of the corner of his mouth, or the way his eyes wandered beyond the shoulder of the lawyer in search of one of his friends or his companion.

"Statutory rape is a crime, Mr. Winchester, were you aware of this?"

"Perfectly aware." Dean answered calmly. Far too calmly, noticed John. He had been wrong to believe that the other party hadn't expected the attack.

"And why did you do this? Has Mr. Novak somehow forced your hand like your father suggests?"

Dean had clearly expected the question but his eyes widened to the formulation. He had a smirk that slightly moved the piercing on his lip which John found slightly obscene.

"I don't want to offend anyone." He said. "But if you intend to splash my sex life to make forget who is the accused here, I find your defense really poor."

"Answer the question." The judge ordered.

John saw Dean silently questioning Castiel and turned his head just in time to see the slight nod of the young man. Dean smiled, a little more relaxed, his seemliness mask slightly cracked.

"No one has forced anyone's hand. The exact words of Mr. Novak were: "I will like you the same and I will want you just as much in five months or in Nevada, three hundred kilometers from here, than now." I slept with Mr. Novak in the wrong place or at the wrong time, but none of us has forced the other to anything."

John did not listen to the rest of the testimony, he only looked at the face of his son come to life in comparison to the hands he composedly held folded on his lap as if to prevent himself from making big gestures. And he thought to himself that it was a shame, all of this. Such a shame to come here when it would have just taken a little effort, a little communication for things to worsen less. It would have just taken Sam to accept to listen to his argument once in his life rather than leaving slamming the door. It would have just taken John to be less angry two years later and him to take them in after the death of Jessica. It would have just taken him to be here when Castiel had come in the picture to avoid this. It would have just taken them to not meet the redhead. So many little things that would have avoided this disaster... So many little things that could have saved him the certainty of having definitively fucked up everything with his sons.

But he didn't feel guilty. He had done what he could. Tried to give them an education they eventually hadn't wanted, and values they had finally rejected. He had tried to make them respectable people whose mother would have been proud and they had preferred a life of street performers. He didn't blame them. He loved them despite everything, and perhaps precisely because of their rebellion.

He only deeply blamed Castiel. He perfectly imagined how the blue eyes could have touched Dean, how the story of the transplant which his son believed he knew nothing of could have moved him enough to think himself in love and then let himself being manipulated. Maybe Castiel was honestly not aware of straying Dean from the straight and narrow. After all the kid had a well-ordered life aside from Dean. And this was perhaps what John found the most appalling. To see how people used his sons on both sides. How Castiel found a status and a negligible recognition in his narrow little life by publicly appearing at the arm of a singer. How Charlie was using them to raise herself in a life she wouldn't have had otherwise. He blamed Crowley for the profit he made of them. And deep down, he blamed Dean and Sam to be so blind they didn't even see the bloodsuckers around them.

He blamed himself maybe even more for not having been able to open their eyes. It was like drowning in a giant puddle of regret when he had always done his best. And it was unfair.

So he had used extreme means, hired two former comrades in arms to scare (the precise terms were "beat the hell out of him.") Castiel but the accountant had clung. If he had been afraid it hadn't been enough. So John had gone to the concert, more to talk to them than anything else.

And it had been too much. All these almost indecent and disgusting declarations of love, to know that from now on everyone would know how Castiel held Dean under his yoke, it had been too much. He had aimed and fired. The first time on the back of Castiel, and the thought had crossed his mind that it was disgraceful to shoot someone's back. The second time, Charlie. Someone had mentioned the name of the redhead who was now going to the witness box. He knew the story because she had told reporters several times. How she had supposedly lost everything and how Dean and Sam had made her a place in their small family, why she didn't leave them since. They could have changed their lives without her, John knew that. He knew how things worked, a girl in the band, make her sexy, say she's a lesbian to excite the public and here comes glory.

The group would have run less without her, would have had a less broad audience. They wouldn't have brought in money to Crowley, wouldn't have had success, and sooner or later Dean and Sam would have come back home. Without Charlie, sooner or later, he would have retrieved his sons. And she was there, accusing him of attempted murder in a trembling voice.

He hadn't tried to kill her even though the idea didn't displease him at that very moment. As Castiel, he had wanted to scare her, let her know he was a threat to big for the profit she would make of his sons. He wanted her to leave them alone.

This is exactly what he explained when the lawyer passed on the question that the young woman apparently wanted to ask him for a long time.

"Why did you target miss Bradbury? She didn't deprave your son."

John turned his gaze in that of Charlie where he only saw an annoying weeping.

"Miss Bradbury says that my son are her family. A family she exploits for her own needs and has never tried to protect or put back on the right track. She legitimizes the destructive behavior of my sons. And this is not something I support. Unlike her, I try at least to take care of the people I love." He didn't add what he thought of her lifestyle. It was unnecessary and his lawyer had specifically forbidden him to evoke it.

Charlie bit her lip, ready to cry. John could feel the tension radiating from the room and the defeat in the shoulders of his lawyer.

Nobody stopped Sam when he began to speak without moving from his place.

"She, at least never shot us nor portrayed us as pimples or perverts. And she doesn't call us destructive when we do something she doesn't understand."

John was expecting Sam to yell. It was in his character, but he just turned his head toward the judge, silently asking permission to speak. It was quite contrary to his character, almost as much as the small scars on his face where lacked the piercings he had removed. He should have been trembling with rage like Dean and Castiel, but he was oddly calm when the judge gave him a nod of approval to replace Charlie in the witness box. Yet, he only talked to John when he spoke.

"She tries to love us as we are. That's why we left and we won't return. Even without Cas, even without Charlie. It was a decision we made long before them and that's not going to change. We are good people. Only not the way you wish."

He turned to Charlie who was seating very straight in her chair and smiled to her. "This isn't so much of a big deal in the end. We survived much worse."

"Do you want to withdraw your complaint?" Asked the judge, a little puzzled.

Sam throw a questioning look to his brother. Dean was trembling but shook his head before putting a word in the ear of the lawyer of Crowley.

"My clients only demand a restriction to approach but will not withdraw their complaint.."

John was barely listening, focused on the hands of Dean that had started to shake.

"And force him to seek treatment before he actually kills someone." She added. "This is my personal request."

John opened his mouth to protest, but his lawyer stopped him with a movement, shaking her head.

The session was adjourned for a few hours. Before leaving the court, accompanied by his lawyer, John looked at his son turn their backs on him one last time, supported by their friends.

He felt miserable and alone.

He had only wanted to protect them.

##

They had several hours to kill before the judge hands down a verdict and they were wasting them in a café near the court where some paparazzi had followed them before losing interest before their silence and their closed faces.

"Maybe he's right after all." Charlie said quietly, looking at the tea she hadn't touched. "Maybe I really take advantage of all of you."

"And maybe I play with your feelings for my personal benefit." Castiel added dryly. "Oh, wait, I have never concealed that."

Dean gave him a slight nudge in the ribs. "Save it for the bedroom, we have witnesses and I don't like putting on a show."

Dorothy and Kevin stifled a giggle. Channing looked tired and edgy. She was hiding her face with one hand so the photographer on the other side of the glass couldn't have a good shot of her, something she had learned fast enough and she deplored.

"This is all crap." She said. "He is either crazy or stupid, probably a little of both. But all he said, he can't think that, not really..."

Sam nodded. "This is pure bullshit, from start to finish." He confirmed. "But he believes it. And let's imagine just for a second that he's right..." He turned to Charlie. "When Dean picked you up in the street, you signed a tacit agreement. He promised to keep you safe, and you promised to thank him by remaining by his side. And you did."

"But you..." She started.

"You remember the first time we were smashed together?"

She nodded. "Your hair was so long I had to hold it while you were throwing up your vodka. And I passed out at one point in the night and when I woke, you had found a way to put me to bed and tuck me in."

"You were talking nonsense about life being a big game that we could never pause."

Nobody around the table had ever heard of this story nor understood why Charlie had tears in her eyes. "I thought I had imagined that. You said you'd be my pause as often as needed."

Sam nodded. "And it hasn't changed. I don't care what he says or thinks, he's wrong. None of us abuses anyone. We assist each other to become better, we aren't good at much else, but it has brought us this far. And maybe we're tattooed wastes hardly worth performing in bikers bars, but if a gang of bikers is the only public I can satisfy, goddamn I intend to do it. And do it well! At least I'll have done some good to some people."

Castiel leaned toward Dorothy pretending to whisper in her ear: "You think he realized he changed the subject along the way?"

"Give him the benefit of the doubt! The intention is good even if it got lost in the middle." She mocked.

Sam pulled a bitch face, earning a chuckle from everyone else except Dean. Then silence fell on them again. The kind of lack of sounds that usually leads to only one thing and they looked at each other, waiting for the others to decide to speak first, until Dean hits his fist on the table.

"We need to write that song."

"Which one?" Kevin asked.

"One that speaks of tattooed wastes in bikers bars."

"And it would be about what exactly?" Madison asked. She had begun to drink her tea quickly, because it seemed that things were going to precipitate shortly.

"Us, and life, and that despite everything, we made it through..."

"On the whole..." Castiel clarified.

"In the end..." Charlie added.

Dean smiled. "Plug your brains, we're going back to the studios." He jumped to his feet as Sam was already handing him their old leather book. "To the studios I said!"

"It's not that I mind your sudden domineering side, but can I remember that we don't have much time before us? We need to be back in court in..." He narrowed his eyes to look at the time on his phone.

"Two and a half hours." Castiel said without moving from his chair, arms crossed.

Dean was already putting a handful of bills on the table, pulling a sleeve of his jacket on. "Then we'll do it quickly." He cast a fixed gaze on his lover. "That, I know we're capable of."

"Who is putting on a show, now?"

Dorothy grunted and kicked the seat of the young man. "Come on, stand up, apparently this man has an idea and he won't drop it."

Of the few hours that followed, all they remembered was Channing, joyful and chirping, and for a brief moment, they all felt perfectly well. In a rush. Stressed. About to cry. But perfect.

##

Returning to the court, Dean realized he had sore hands. It had not happened to him since he played the guitar regularly. He was hungry too. Or maybe he just had a big ball that twisted his stomach, it was hard to tell the difference. Sam had shut himself the time of the taxi ride and was nervously scratching his thumbnail against the seam of his jeans. Charlie was dark, Kevin had his teeth clenched. Whatever the state of mind that had kept them so far, it had disappeared by the time they had left the recording studio.

The court was musty and the smell assaulted Dean like this morning, the knot in his stomach was definitely not from hunger. He sought the hand of Castiel behind him and squeezed it tight before sitting on the seat that had been assigned to him. He had a heavy head, burning eyes, and the ball that went back up from his stomach to his throat before coming back down again.

"It'll be fine." Said Channing in a low tone beside him, as if to convince herself. He nodded, not really convinced.

He tried to listen to the judge. He really tried. It was like being back at school face to a soporific teacher; impossible to focus his attention on something other than Sam who was tapping his foot and Dorothy who regularly put her hand on his leg so he would keep still. He clenched his free fist when John came in and sat near them on the dock.

He began to attend his own rush of anxiety as you look at an accident occur on a highway, unable to do anything to prevent or stop it. He heard neither the judgment nor the verdict. His ears had begun to buzz so loud that it seemed to him he had been dipped in water. His heart was beating too fast, or maybe not at all anymore, and his lungs were on fire. He was holding his breath, trying to prevent the ball from strolling through his belly. He had blurred vision but somehow he could no longer raise his head. And no matter how he was pressing Castiel's hand with all his strength, it brought him no comfort.

He stood up, crazed, groggy and followed the others. Sam was calmer, he was walking head down, shoulders hunched. Dean retained himself from asking what had happened, how much time had passed. He wasn't sure not to cry if he opened his mouth. The outside light struck him almost like a brick wall. He stopped, leaving the others distance him, apart from Castiel who was still gripping his hand without saying anything. And there, in the middle of the street, paralyzed with panic, he began to cry. Huge sobs that escaped him in waves he couldn't contain. The lump in his stomach was stretching like a sponge, up to his chest and his throat. It prevented him to breathe or do anything other than sniffing, hands clenched on his face, feeling tears rolling between his fingers.

He had done it. He didn't know the sentence, somewhere, his brain had refused to hear it. But he had done it. And even if a part of him told him that it was the right thing to do, standing there in this court, the rest of him didn't believe it. The rest of him only saw a little boy who had just sent his father in prison. And it was wrong.

There were two arms around him, which were holding him tight and it was all he could feel beyond the distress and guilt that gnawed his entrails.

"It's gonna be okay." How many times Sam had already repeated these words in the last minutes, rocking him there, stupidly planted in a street where paparazzi were beginning to gather? Dean had no idea, his head was spinning, he was feeling heavy, full of distress and very empty at the same time. He had stopped crying, he no longer had the strength to. He let himself being pushed into a taxi, and even without closing his eyes he saw nor felt nothing on the way until the door of Castiel's apartment closes behind them, suddenly muting the tumult of the outside world.

He let himself being undressed, pushed in the shower, put to bed. It still seemed to him he had a big ball of tears at the bottom of the heart, but he was too weak now to let it out.

"It'll be alright." Castiel said softly. It was maybe the thirtieth time, but he said it as calmly as if he were ready to repeat it again ad infinitum.

"No." Dean croaked.

"Yes it will."

Castiel slid under the blankets next to him, literally wrapped himself around him and hugged him as hard as he could. He must have showered too. He smelled of citrus. "It will." He repeated. "It doesn't seem so, I know, but the worst is over."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I've already lived it. I know what it's like." Said Castiel.

"It hurts like hell."

"I know." Castiel closed his eyes, gently pressing the scars of Dean, forehead resting between his shoulder blades. "But it'll be fine. I promise."

"_You can never go back to the things that once were,_

_But there's always a place, you can go back and find shelter_"


	28. Chap 28: Tattooed Wastes in a Bikers Bar

**Warnings: ****swearing, language, reference to drunkenness, slight physical violence, mention of gun violence, mention of underage drinking, mention of alcohol abuse, mention of homophobia, mention of homophobic behavior**

* * *

**Chapter 28: **Tattooed Wastes in a Bikers Bar

"_Bad music that history remembers,_

_Comes from the sound of anger,_

_But cheer up brother,_

_When the bass gets too low,_

_You're still my shelter from the snow_"

Crowley was asleep on his feet and regularly passed his hand over his face, thinking that he needed vacation. Long and distant if possible. On his screen, Jody Mills was speaking of the future tour of _Free Will _without him being able to intervene to point out that no album had been released yet.

"And their name was proposed for the Coachella line up."

"Excuse me?" Crowley abruptly went down of his fatigue cloud. "They aren't known enough for Coachella!"

"They weren't last month." Corrected the booking agent. "You know you have to strike while the iron is hot. If they can release a single within a month, even if the album is only released after the festival, they are assured to be promoted just because the tabloids will love to cut them to shreds after the trial. Or shower them with praise."

Crowley found himself wincing. "You do realize that you're suggesting to serve these kids up to bad journalists just to sell your tour of an album they haven't even finished?"

"I am taking a calculated risk." Jody answered with a lag time due to videoconferencing. "They will get their heads bitten off anyway, so everybody may as well at least earn money with the inevitable."

"This is my line." Grumbled Crowley. He did not really have qualms to use the groups he produced for his benefit. It was more or less the definition of his job. But unlike many others, Crowley was aware that his artists were still human with limits not to be exceeded. Limits which, according to him, were far behind them in the case of _Free Will_. "We can't ask them that."

"Because they just lost their father?"

Crowley shook his head. "No. Because they will do it. They will have a single in a month, and the double album finished three weeks after Coachella, perfectly on schedule to be sold."

"Then where's the problem?"

"They will do it. But they'll do it badly." Crowley leaned toward the screen, his fingers joined in a small pyramid under his chin as he explained Jody something on which he had never put words. "They have potential. They can do something really good. So far they didn't have what it took to motivate them but now... Give them time, give them freedom, and they can do something really good."

"Good how?" Asked Jody.

"Good to be still hummed in thirty years." Said Crowley. "Good to leave a trace in history."

Jody frowned. "You became attached to them." She noted.

"I believe in them."

"So do I. That's why I keep their names for Coachella."

Cowley nodded. "But no single, no album. If we must promote them on a scandal might as well do all the way. And by then, let them work in peace."

##

"_Good men cry when bad men die,_

_When they crush our dreams,_

_Numb them with morphine,_

_Until you're stranger to the sound of guitars._"

"We gotta go to Vegas." Said Sam. He was sprawled on the couch of Charlie, his legs across those of Dorothy, acting as support for the magazine the young woman was leafing through for an hour without really paying attention to it.

From the kitchen area, he heard Charlie sigh.

"Where does that come from?"

"That's what we do you and me!" He pleaded. "When things go wrong, we go to Vegas."

The bassist placed on the table before him a tray of sandwiches and glasses. "We aren't going to Vegas, Sam. Last time didn't teach you a lesson?"

"We got out with a song!"

"Pure chance." Charlie pushed him to get a place on her couch. "This is a bad habit we'll have to lost. I can already see the newspaper titles tomorrow if we go to Vegas..."

"After the trial, the celebration. How the young drummer Sam Winchester lives his father's sentence..." Dorothy parodied with an acidic voice.

Sam sighed, resting his feet on the ground, ignoring the sandwich Charlie was handing him. "So what do you want to do? Right now Dean and Castiel are having it away but that, that doesn't pose a problem to you!"

"They're probably doing it somewhere where no journalist can see them." Replied Dorothy. She had dropped her magazine and took Sam's chin in her hand to force him to look at her. "Vegas ain't the problem Sam. The problem is that you're all in deep shit now, and whether you like it or not for some time it's going to be about keeping a low profile, otherwise the press will destroy you and you cannot afford it!"

"Do you think that I don't know? Do you think I care? I just sent my father to jail, we're gonna take a kicking whatever happens, so if I wanna go to Vegas..." The young man lost his temper.

Dorothy put a hand on his arm to calm him. He realized that she looked old. He didn't even know her age, but from time to time, she had something calm and wise that reminded him too much of Dean for him to not listen to her.

"I've collected you in drunk tank once. Please, don't make me do it again."

Charlie had stopped chewing her sandwich and Sam could feel the entire restraint tension of Dorothy. "Why?" He asked darkly. "Why do you care?"

"Because I care about you." She answered. She hoped that sincerity would pierce in her tone, but Sam frowned, a mocking smile at the corner of the mouth.

"You care about your job actually."

The blow had struck before Dorothy knew it, she heard the sound of the slap, felt pain in her palm, but she had not made the decision to strike him. It was a reflex. Sam was holding his cheek and looking at her harshly without saying anything. She opened her mouth to apologize and closed it, obstinate. Behind Sam, Charlie had eyes wide, mouth open in surprise.

The next moment, Sam was slamming the door behind him and the tension accumulated on Dorothy's shoulders the whole day vanished, leaving her sad and tired. She took her head with both hands and Charlie wrapped her arms around her, resting her chin on top of her skull and gently rocking her.

"It'll set him straight." She said softly.

Dorothy shook her head. "I told him exactly what my mother told me after the robbery, when I skipped classes to hide behind the gym. When the cops picked me up in the street because I didn't want to go home."

"And what happened?"

"You know that."

"You left." Charlie said softly. "But he will come back."

"How do you know that?"

Charlie pulled away from Dorothy, just enough to place her forehead against hers. "I know it that's all. Good people always come back."

Dorothy closed her eyes, shaking her head. Maybe then, wasn't she a good person, she had never come back anywhere except to Charlie, and yet she had been forced by circumstances.

"Call your mother Dotty... you should have done it years ago."

It came out of nowhere, yet Dorothy heard by the tone of Charlie that she thought about it for a long time, maybe since the day she had told her her story. And Charlie had kept it in memory, sanded, polished, glossy to present it again at the perfect time.

"You are vicious and manipulative." She mumbled.

"I know."

Charlie slipped her phone in her hand. When Dorothy came back in the living room about an hour later, her eyes red from crying and nose still blocked-up, she found her companion watching old episodes of _Star Trek_. She slipped against her, sniffing, and Charlie had the delicacy not to ask her anything. They watched Kirk and Spock save some planet and Dorothy ended up drowsing, a smile on the lips and heavy-hearted. She still had the voice of her mother in mind, more hoarse than before, also older, but still comforting.

"You know mom, I didn't want to hurt you and Dad, it's just that..."

"I know honey. I know."

##

"_They say we're tattooed wastes in a bikers bar,_

_That chorus and poetry won't get us far,_

_That you can't fight for you life with your fists,_

_That their path is the only way out of this._"

There were journalists down the building of Charlie, not many but enough to annoy Sam a bit more. He was still wearing the smart shoes and jeans he had pulled on for the hearing. It was pitch dark and flashes bedazzled him as he passed under a street lamp, he raised a hand to shield his eyes and resisted the urge to flip them the bird. As annoying as she is, Dorothy was right, they were going to be watched, him more than the others. He had no illusions, he knew that sooner or later the journalists would know whence came the original complaint, and the fact that John had shot them would take a back seat behind the unworthy son who was sending his father in prison.

It wasn't fair. It made him want to scream, opportunity he didn't have at this moment. He walked a little faster to shake off the reporters who were massing together around him, pressing him with questions he was not listening. He was clenching his teeth and fists and without realizing it, started running. He was not dressed for, the air was muggy and soon his jacket would be a nuisance, but in a few long strides he had outdistanced the journalists. A few others and he was turning at the corner of the street. He had spent so much time at Charlie's that he knew the whole neighborhood. And he had run so much in his life that the pace he imposed upon himself didn't even leave him out of breath during the few kilometers that separated him from the beach.

It was a shabby and disreputable place, perfectly the kind of environment in which his father probably imagined him. In his back the city lights were eclipsing the stars, melting the sea and the sky in an infinite separated only by the frothy crest of the waves. People were talking around him. Band of half drunk teenagers or homeless persons trying to sleep on the sand. He walked to the edge of the waves and breathed the sea air by big gulps.

He had passed the threshold where physical activity caused an endorphin release and his mind was a little clearer. He had a vague desire to tell the kids to go home. Most weren't even Kevin's age, not even his age when leaving for Stanford, not even Castiel's age when they had met him. And God they were young at the time, only a few years ago.

John had been young too, one day. He thought of it while the sea rose, now lapping against the toes of his shoes. He had been young and in love, even more than Sam had loved Madison, possibly more than Dean loved Castiel. He had only one picture of the four of them, a few days before the death of his mother, and the expression in the eyes of his father was beautiful to look. He had kept it only for that. He had memorized every detail over the years. He had never seen that expression on his father again. Yet he had sought it in vain for almost twenty years.

Maybe he had really wanted to protect them. The fact he had done it poorly took nothing of the intention. The fact he had disguised his pain under the need to shape his sons in his image didn't change the fact that he had probably honestly tried. And that his biggest mistake had been not to accept failure.

Sam smiled. As if Dean and himself had never learned to accept failure! He breathed once again, heard someone call him behind his back and didn't take account of it. This moment was his. He removed his shoes which he threw behind him with his sweat-soaked shirt, and after a moment of hesitation, his jeans which he took the time to fold before dropping it on the still dry sand.

No matter that someone steals his clothes and phone. For now it didn't matter. He went into cold water, sinking slightly in the sand, even enjoying the pebbles that collided with his ankles while water retreated and returned to submerge him, a little higher with each step until he was immersed to the shoulders. He began to swim as if each movement could wash him of a doubt, drown a regret or heal an old wound.

When he came up on the beach, his clothes were distinctly folded on the sand aside from the sea. His phone and wallet were missing, which made him smile. In a few days, personal photos would appear in the tabloids and on the net. He found himself wishing the thief to make a lot of money with it. Fatigue probably.

His clothes clung to his skin to the second he pulled them on again, his hair dripping into his eyes and he had to walk long to be dry enough to dare put his shoes on again. He was a pitiful sight when knocking on Madison's door an hour later. She looked ready to kill when she opened, and he had time to examine her with a pang of emotion before she departs from the door ajar to let him in. He noted her tangled hair, the old t-shirt in which she slept and her bare legs. Even the flaky nail polish on her toes. A whole lot of things that seemed so normal when they now fell under privacy.

"You were assaulted by firefighters?"

"I took a midnight swim."

Her eyes were clouded with sleep and she obviously didn't want to prolong the discussion. "You know where are the towels, I'll get sheets out for the sofa."

It was one o'clock in the morning, he had just awoken her and she didn't look more perturbed than that. As if this was normal, as if she expected it, or as if she didn't care. She put a pair of sheets in his arms, yawning. "Good night Sam."

"You're not staying with me?" He smiled. It was what he would have said in any other circumstances. It was what the Sam they both knew would have said. But at that moment, it seemed oddly out of character. As if, in reality, he was not the kind of man who flirted almost without realizing it.

"We're not like this anymore Sam." She said softly. She looked awake this time. And she should have looked sad but she was smiling. "Do not pretend. And go take a shower before ruining my couch!"

The old Sam, the other Sam would have tried to drag her into the shower with him. Just on principle. Just for the appeal. He didn't know if the change dated from several days or an hour ago, but he just thanked her with a nod and obeyed her. She was still in the living room when he returned, wearing a jogging he had probably left there months ago.

"Why the midnight swim?" She asked, helping him to make a bed on the sofa.

"Cause it wasn't raining. And I needed... I don't know, to clean myself of some things I imagine." He said thoughtfully. He sat cross-legged, a pillow between the arms. "Needed to leave resentments, and many other things behind me."

"Usually, for this you write a song or get a tattoo."

"Not anymore."

He slipped between the sheets with a sigh of contentment. "Thank you for not kicking me out."

"Don't mention it." She smiled. Out of habit she ran her hand through his hair to move them aside of his forehead before realizing what she was doing and quickly withdrawing it. Sam smiled.

"I thought we weren't like that anymore?" He teased.

"I don't know what we are Sam, but I will allow myself that kind of familiarity as long as you'll come knocking at my door for no reason in the middle of the night."

"Fair enough." He closed his eyes, enjoying the hand she was passing through his hair again as if she wanted to make sure he falls asleep before returning to her room.

"And for the record, once you've found someone else, I'll also allow myself to hate her if she hurts you, and blame her a bit for taking my place."

"And if she's a decent girl?"

"I'll like her twice more if she makes you happy." Madison answered softly.

Sam was beginning to fall asleep, the world was revolving behind his closed eyes and his brain seemed to float in warm cotton. His only anchorage point was Madison's hand on his head and the kiss she gently laid on his forehead, wishing him good night.

He forced himself to open his eyes, sitting up on one elbow, calling her just before she crosses the door of her room.

"Mads... Once you've found someone else, I will allow myself to smash his face if he hurts you. Just so you know."

She smiled. "Content yourself with teaching me how to do it. Unlike you, I still have a clean record."

##

"_But through our novocained lyrics,_

_Through the drumbeats,_

_We became more than shooting stars,_

_Despite the odds we made it so far._"

Dean had eyes burning with fatigue and the mind so foggy he barely felt Castiel wrap his arms around him as he was watching the coffee filtering. He greeted him with a grunt.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine." Dean answered.

Behind his back, Castiel grunted and slightly bumped his forehead against his shoulder blade. "Don't lie to me."

Dean sighed, but before he could answer, his phone rang on the table. He freed himself of his lover's arm to read the text.

"Charlie wants us to pop by."

"Tell her we'll be there in three hours."

"Three..." Dean turned over, puzzled, and found himself face to Castiel who was looking at him without blinking. He put down the phone with a smile. "You overestimate our endurance."

"No, I take foreplay into account."

"You hate foreplay."

Castiel nodded. He still had tangled hair and eyes narrowed by sleep, he was wearing the outfit in which Dean preferred to see him: an old t-shirt and boxers. It was almost enough to bring back memories, almost enough to drive out the lump he still had deep in the throat. He closed his eyes and pressed Castiel against him, nose in his neck, filling up with his pillow and musty after shave smell.

"But you love it, and you need it." The other murmured in his ear.

Dean shivered. He reached under Castiel's shirt, up to his back, trying to feel his heart beat under his hand, but he only felt his own pulse.

"It's not the moment, Cas."

Just as it wasn't the moment in Arizona years ago. Or never before a concert. Not the moment the evening of Kevin's birthday the year before. As many times where it hadn't really stopped them and Dean found himself smiling.

"I think it is." Castiel said quietly, pulling away from him. "What happened yesterday, in one way or another you will have to learn to live with it. And you and Sam will manage to. We'll help you to."

"Right now I just want to forget." Sighed Dean.

"I know." Castiel kissed him gently. "And in a first phase, it's healthy. But I prefer you to do it with me rather than with a bottle of whiskey."

Dean smiled. "You wanna be my substitute to alcohol?"

"I want to be all it takes for you to get better. And I want you to believe me when I tell you that everything will be fine."

Dean nodded slowly before kissing him again, longer, more intensely, clenching his hands in the back of his lover, already imagining running them through his hair and ruffling it a little more before remembering he hadn't apprised Charlie.

"Three hours then..." He said, quickly typing a text before putting down the phone on the table. Castiel nodded and gently guided him toward the bedroom. Every little step back he took seemed to slightly take Dean away of his worries. He stopped smiling and grabbed his wrists, passing his thumb on the dandelion tattoo, unable to know if the pulse he felt was his or that of Castiel. His knees bumped into the edge of the bed and he sat down, dragging Castiel down with him.

"I'm still in no mood to play." He said. His voice was low and husky already. Ten minutes earlier it could have passed for a morning hoarseness. It was clearly no longer the case. Castiel freed his wrists, pushed on his shoulders and toppled him back while he crawled over him to straddle him.

"I know. I'm not playing." Castiel said, grabbing in his turn the wrists of his lover to bring them above his head. He pinned him to the bed as much as his weight allowed him to and plunged his eyes into those of Dean. He had red cheeks and looked serious. "It's not a game this time. It's comfort, it's me trying to take care of you. It's just to remind you that someone you love loves you back. And thinks you're perfect the way you are."

"I am not..."

"Yes you are." Castiel cut him off. He leaned over a bit more until his lips brush against those of Dean. "Do not contradict me."

Dean shook his head, eyes closed, savoring the breath of Castiel on his lips, and then their contact, light at first, then more possessive. He opened his mouth, growling, letting the tongue of his lover explore it. His heart should have beaten faster, he should have felt this ball in the pit of his stomach that he usually had when they made love. But he just felt the still regular breathing of Castiel against his chest, his hands tight around his wrists, the rustle of sheets under their tangled legs. And the slow pace that Castiel's tongue was imposing him was slowly making surge back his doubts and anxieties.

When he let go of his wrists, Dean's hands automatically found their place on the head of Castiel. Clenched in his hair, on his chin, holding it in place to kiss again, while the hands of Castiel were passing under his waist and landed flat on the tattoo on his lower back as if trying to relieve it of a pain.

They both groaned, already covered with a thin layer of sweat and out of breath. Dean was deep sunk into the pillows and the mattress, Castiel above him, nestling his head in the crook of his neck to whisper some things to his ear. A litany of I love you which were accompanied by caresses and kisses, each in a different place, in a different tone, as if repeating it often enough could anchor it deeper into Dean, make the thing more real.

"And now, Dean Winchester, I'm going to prep you." Castiel whispered, moving slightly away. "With my tongue..." A kiss in the crook of the neck. "With my fingers..." Dean moaned and sat up slightly to lay his lips on the tattooed collarbone of Castiel. For a second the young man lost the thread of his sentence and remained mouth half open on an inaudible sigh. "When you'll be begging me to take you, I'll make love to you until you forget everything except my name. Does it suit you?" He panted. His hands had moved up to Dean's shoulders, his fingernails had already left a few red marks on his back.

Dean nodded.

"Say it." Castiel growled. Desire dilated his pupils, made his heart beat too fast, but he wasn't here for his own pleasure. For now only Dean mattered. Dean who nodded again, closing his eyes under his caresses before sputtering his consent hoarsely, his fingernails already dug into the skin of the hips of Castiel.

"Suits me... Cas please!" The rest of the world could go to hell for now. Only the two of them mattered and Dean could no longer see beyond Castiel's body. Nothing existed beyond his sighs, nothing mattered except the two of them pressed one against the other for as long as possible.

Castiel smiled, held him against himself and gently lay his lover amid pillows.

"Good boy. Now, spread your legs."

##

"_We might be tattooed whores in a bikers bar,_

_But if music and desperate poetry,_

_Could bring you back to me,_

_It could show you, we're not your ideal offspring,_

_But the kids are alright._

_Mostly._"

The group recorded less quickly than before, but a lot of the work was already done. Soon, Crowley would be responsible for determining which track would be the first single. They had plunged back into the recording body and soul to leave behind them the bitter aftertaste of the trial.

The disc had taken a new turn. Kevin had bet with Channing that the tone of the album would be darker, angrier. Yet the songs that Sam wrote and the changes brought by Dean were optimistic, less gloomy than one might have expected.

"I think now we just want to make a fresh start and move forward." Dean confided one day to the cellist, looking through the window of the studio at Charlie who was recording her bass line. "And I think you've been in a huff with Sam enough."

Kevin scowled instantly. "I'll go off in a huff if I please!"

Nearly two months after the shooting, he only talked to Sam in case of sheer necessity. Kevin was clinging to his anger as much as Castiel had clung to John's trial to move forward.

"And you want to keep being in a huff with him for what?"

Kevin opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came out. Dean didn't seem angry, he just looked old. He had the same expression as his mother when she was about to make him aware of something unpleasant.

"He let Charlie down. Literally. She was dying and all he managed to do was to bemoan his fate and cross his arms and wait." The young man lost his temper. On the other side of the glass, Charlie was going back over the bar with a sign for Bobby to change something. "He can play the hero and pretend it's your father the culprit, but he, when we've needed him, he did nothing!"

"He tries to do right now. I get that you're angry, Charlie is too. But Sam is only human and humans break down under pressure."

"Not you. Not Castiel..."

Dean nodded. "Cas it's different, he has a kinda inhuman tolerance to pressure. And I also break down, just rarely in public. Don't blame Sam for being less strong than you. He can't really help it, and not everyone can be Mulan."

"Mulan?" Kevin looked puzzled.

"Ya know, the flower that blooms in adversity blah-blah? That's you. And that's admirable, really. But Sam isn't like this, and I find it unfair that you blame him this much for something he already blames himself for and he cannot change."

Kevin kept a closed face and Dean dropped the subject. In the recording room, Charlie was withdrawing the strap of the bass with a grimace of pain before massaging her shoulder. She now wore a bandage under her clothes when she had to use her instrument. The pain decreased day by day but doctors had warned her it might last for a long time. Kevin made a point to take her to her place now, as if a crazed killer would show up at every street corner to shoot her and she let him do, he needed it for reassurance, and when he was there, she felt less vulnerable to journalists and paparazzi who still regaled of a photo where she was seen crying while holding her shoulder. One of them, once had hit her there, allegedly by accident to have his photo. Crowley had immediately lodged a complaint but Charlie doubted the effectiveness of the method. They didn't talk to all the way to her house, accompanied only by the sound of their steps and shouts from the few journalists who were hoping for a good shot. They were walking shoulder against shoulder, looking down on the sidewalk and Charlie hated it. She held the door of her building to Kevin and carefully closed it behind her with a sigh. They would be in a sidebar somewhere in a rag the next day but that didn't matter this evening.

"We're done." Charlie whispered putting her key in her lock. "At least the first version of the album is finally over."

Kevin nodded. He was so tired that it honestly left him completely indifferent.

"And now what do we do?"

"Sleep I guess. And present the project to Crowley. And you, you really should talk to Sam. We're gonna go on tour again one day or the other and you can't keep sulking like that."

"Did Dean ask you to talk to me?" Snarled the young man.

"Actually Channing did. But I agree with her." The bassist said, smiling. "He's your friend Kevin. I know he screwed up, and believe me I'm still mad at him sometimes. But he really did his best, and we need to stand together right now, not to bust up for nothing."

"You call that nothing?" He said, showing her shoulder with a gesture. "You were dying, and he..."

"His brother was also dying, we were all..." Charlie sighed and shook her head. Thinking about the shooting still made her shudder, made her feel sick. "He didn't shoot."

"I know." Sighed Kevin. "But I can't help but blaming him."

"At least talk to him. Give him a chance to explain. He misses you."

The next day, Charlie was slightly dancing in her seat at the end of listening of the album, ready to accept without any modesty Crowley's compliments. The producer didn't pretend to move or smile when the last song ended.

"This will require changes." He said quietly.

Kevin snorted, Sam frowned. "We currently can't do better." He says dryly.

"Yeah well, you'll have to, because this..." Crowley said waving the CD he had just took from the computer player. "This doesn't justify the investment that I did on you."

Charlie felt her smile turn into a grimace. They had put their guts in this album for months on, and it wasn't up to the expectations of Crowley? She was ready to tell him to fuck off when Dean spoke.

"No question of changing anything."

They all turned to him, incredulous, a faint smile floating on the lips of Crowley.

"Finally grew a pair Winchester?"

Dean glared at him as coldly as his anger permitted him to. "We put everything we have in this album. It's exactly the way we wanted it and I refuse to change anything about it. If we gotta sell ourselves I'd prefer to turn ten dollars tricks in the street to produce this album rather than changing a note."

Charlie choked on a sip of tea and coughed until Kevin pat her on the back. Sam was smiling, watching Crowley. With a very calculated gesture he swayed to retrieve a cigarette pack in his back pocket and caught one between his teeth. He didn't know since how long he had been dragging around this pack without touching it but the first puff of nicotine made him smile. He blew the smoke in the air.

"Charlie, in your opinion, how much would it yield a guy like me performing stripteases?"

"Less than a lesbian who does glamor shots." She answered, trying not to laugh at Crowley's jaded look.

"Seriously none of you three ever considered doing a normal job?" Kevin grumbled, crossing his arms.

"It's not about working, it's about making money." Sam replied before taking another drag on his cigarette. They looked at each other a moment and Sam almost shyly raised his hand that wasn't holding cigarette. Kevin cracked a smile and clapped it.

Crowley rolled his eyes and sighed.

"You've signed us when we were doing the music we wanted in filthy bars." Dean spoke again. He didn't know where he found the calm and strength to speak without stammering, but the words were falling from his lips, as clear as if he had practiced them. "You thought it had value, and if you still believe it, this album will remain like this. Or we're out of there."

Crowley nodded slowly. He did not look defeated, indeed he seemed almost relieved and happy, which Charlie found worrisome. "Good" He said. "This is exactly why you need me. Because you really think your tricks would be worth ten dollars."

Charlie choked again on her tea and resigned herself to put it on the desk, hoping that it leaves a smear. Dean was looking at Crowley, puzzled. The producer folded his hands and stared at them in turns.

"Let me give you a tip if you want to succeed in business. You must know exactly what you're worth and claim at least twice more."

Dean frowned. "That's robbery to charge more than the value of things."

"First, none of you is a thing. Then, no one has the slightest idea of what you are worth before you tell them. The world will never do you any favors, so swindle it back. Always ask for more than your value, this is what will determine your value to the world's eyes." He fixed his gaze in that of Dean. "In this business it's not the value of your work that matters, it's the price the public is willing to pay to appropriate it. You'll be surprised to find that people accept the price they are offered without discussion." His tone made it clear that the interview was over and Kevin was the first to stand to go out, followed Sam and Charlie. Dean was bringing up the rear, Crowley called him out as he had his hand on the door handle.

"Dean..."

His determination had just left him, the young man wondered if he hadn't just made a big mistake.

"Sorry." He started. "I probably shouldn't have said what I said."

"Oh, no. Actually I had been expecting something like this for a while." Surprise made Dean turn around. Crowley had got up and crossed the room. "I thought the accountant would bring it to you but apparently it was not enough. So let me give you just one last advice Dean..."

Crowley hadn't often called him by his first name. And never had he done it with anything other than a calculated detachment. Saying that there was gentleness in his eyes would have been violently abusing the term. But there was something other than the cold businessman. Something that gave him the irresistible urge to listen to him and Dean understood why Crowley was successful. He knew how to give people exactly what they expected and to assure them he was trustworthy.

"Never let anyone tell you how much you're worth. Even people you love, even people you trust. No one."

Dean digested the sentence and the surprising impression that Crowley was right. He smiled.

"How much I am worth to you?"

"Did you listen what I said?" Grunted the producer.

"I don't intend to take it into account. 'm just curious."

Crowley seemed to consider the question for a moment before shrugging, any trace of compassion hidden under his usual mask. "As an individual I don't know and I don't care. But I've bet on you. To you four, for me you're worth millions."

Dean nodded and opened the door.

"Do not disappoint me!" Said the producer in his back.

"We never did."

After their departure, Crowley found himself thinking about them with kindness. Wondering what it would have been like to have sons like the Winchesters. Probably nothing good. No parent could get along properly with these two morons. But as unbearable and inconsequential they may be, they had will, work force. For several years, Crowley had been seeing them evolve and finish growing up, become men who, if not perfect, did their best.

He would have been rather proud to have raised sons who tried at least to do well and be good men. He shook his head as if it were sufficient to erase the intruding thoughts and went back to his computer.

"You really are a prat John Winchester." He grumbled between his teeth before making a copy of the CD which he put in a caddy and then in an envelope.

##

The envelope had been opened. John was not surprised, nothing legally entered nor left the jail without a careful control. The letter had been written in the obvious intention to be as neutral and explicit as possible to take the exam, and the supplied headphones with the little MP3 player had necessarily been tested. Not strong enough to hang oneself with, or to hurt anyone. That made him smile grimly.

He had listened to the music of _Free Will _and had not really liked it. He might have recognized inspirations he liked, he wouldn't have bought the final product if it hadn't been his sons. That it was a glimpse of the mind of Dean and Sam was the only reason he had a copy of each of their albums and had listened to each song more than once. He had tried to understand why and how his sons had escaped him, when he had become a bad father in their eyes, when they had become bad sons to him. He had not found answers in their songs.

Their producer had sent him their latest album. A police officer or any warder had already listened to it to ensure that no messages was hidden, no escape plan or God knew what. A faceless stranger had held the work of his sons in his hands without it has any importance to him. And no matter how John knew he was going to hate the album, he wanted to cringe and demand a little respect for the work that represented this recording.

It was a job of street performers and half-starved wretches. It was industrialized prostitution and nothing he would have wished for his sons. But as unpleasant as it was to admit, he had seen them become good at what they did. And even if he had nothing to do with their achievements, he was proud of them.

The lights went out at the same time than usual and he lay on his bunk, the earphones on. Even a very bad music was better than the grunts of his cell neighbors trying to sleep or inveighed each others of either side of the hallway.

The first track began with an cello introduction followed by a bass after a few times. He jumped when the drums and guitar exploded simultaneously and lowered the volume.

"_They made us believe we were shooting stars,_

_Forgot to mention we lit up someone's sky,_

_Told you you're no hero,_

_You're just a ghost._"

Two and three songs passed, they lacked smoothness, Dean's voice was hoarser than it would be on the final product, more crude and more like the one he knew. At the end of some records he could hear a few laughs or voices that hadn't been edited out. He had forgotten the laughter of Sam, but he could imagine him harassing his drums, muscles tense by exercise, looking concentrated or ecstatic. He had seen him on stage with a heavy heart, that kid could have been absolutely anything as long as he puts his energy and motivation in something else. He had chosen music and John didn't get why. Why hitting percussions rather than anything else? He remembered his violent reaction when Sam had told him he wanted to be a lawyer... What next? Why striving to maintain outlaws outside of prison? Why? John didn't have the answer, but from music to music, he felt his muscles contract involuntarily, his teeth tighten to the rhythm of the drums, as if he was anxious that it stops pounding his skull and leaves him alone with his questions.

He paid attention to the lyrics, to the intonation, to the few cracks in the voice of Dean. They evoked him the little boy he had been, and the teenager who wrapped himself in John's leather jackets to look older when he had a date with a girl. When had he started going out with men? And how could John have missed such a thing?

He gradually slipped into a sleep away from the noise of the prison while the album continued to unfold its melodies in his ears. Dreams had a heavier texture than reality, and the feeling of oppression was gone when he slept. In his dream, he knew he was dying and that Dean had come fetch him. In his dream, his son had no piercing and no tattoo under his immaculately cut dark suit. His gaze was detached and calm. He let John examine him long to fill his eyes of the vision of the ideal son he had lost years ago. He extended a hand without saying anything and John gazed it a moment, perplexed. Not that he wasn't ready to die in his dream, but there was something wrong in this dream.

"Where is Sam?" He asked.

"He's not here." Dean answered without expressing any emotion, hand still outstretched to him.

"He didn't want to come." John translated.

Dean sighed and raised his eyes to heaven. "Sam!" he shouted, looking over his shoulder. John wasn't even surprised to see his youngest materialize in the black space around them, also dressed in a dark suit that suited him better than everything John had seen him decked out in years. He also had something calm and detached didn't suit him. This wasn't Sam. Not the little rebel boy who hid puppies at the neighbors, not the surly young man nor the angry adult he knew. John blinked, unwittingly disturbed by the short hair of his son. Since Sam knew how to run he had fled scissors. He blinked again to try to get used to this image, after all, this was how he had always wanted them right?

But maybe it lacked a bit of them in these messengers of death, some realism. When he blinked again, Sam had again his hair falling into his eyes and the weight on the chest of John lightened a bit. He could vaguely hear the music coming from far away, and each of his inhalations slowly changed the image of his sons. Suits a little more wrinkled, less well adjusted, hair more tangled. Then gradually piercings that were reappearing on the face and ears of Sam, the one to the lip of Dean and the green stone under his eye. And the threadbare leather jacket which no longer even creaked when his eldest moved.

This was not the image that John loved having of his sons, but it looked like them. Curiously, as unpleasant as it is, it was more normal than to see them... normal.

Dean had still his hand outstretched and this time, John took it. Before waking he had time to see the glowing tip of a cigarette between the lips of Sam.

##

"_They told her she's not good enough,_

_Not strong, that life's too tough,_

_She lived a story where she was not the hero,_

_Forgot to tell her she's a radiant rainbow._"

Repairing the Impala was something cathartic for Dean, and by extension for all the others. So far, only Dorothy helped him in his task but the end of the album recording had left them all unoccupied, something they were not used to. And it was easier to hide from reporters in the garage than in their respective apartments.

A greasy radio was broadcasting an old piece of the Red Hot Chili Peppers drown out by the pounding of Sam who was striving to straighten the car's fender. Kevin and Charlie were cursing a weld which refused to stick in a dismantled headlight. Madison, sitting cross-legged on the floor was sewing back up with a concentrated look the leather of one of the bench seats, ripped by the glass that had shattered on impact. Dean crawled out from under the car after checking the parallelism to hear the engine roar on which Dorothy was doing fine tunings.

He watched them all for a moment with a heartache. This was probably due to fatigue and the turmoil of the last days but he felt at once infinitely happy of the disparate family that Sam and him had gathered around them, and very sad that none of them was actually part of his family. As if what he had found was not enough to really make up for the abandonment. He shook his head and went back to work. A bolt after another, an swear word when he got a finger caught somewhere, and here and there the more or less delighted exclamations of his companions or the cursing of Charlie who wasn't doing very well with her headlight. It was so far from the life they considered normal that they all had like a strange floating sensation, as if they were taking their marks before a huge storm.

Instead of a storm, it was Castiel who entered the garage, squinting in the neon light, greeted by welcoming grunts. He looked like the personification of the strange uneasiness of Dean, a bit out of place in the greasy garage, in his suit barely wrinkled from his day of work, and his hair that was beginning to be too long and curling in the back of his neck.

Dean ignored his knees which protested when he stood up to draw him to himself and kiss him, fully aware that he was ruining the white shirt of the accountant with his hand full of grease.

"How are things going?"

"She's recovering slowly." Dean answered, beholding the scene. He was well aware that the car was very representative of their state of mind at them all, and that they were using her as a tool to keep their hands and mind busy the time to be rested enough to resume moving forward. There were worse ways to manage their lives after all.

On the workbench, a phone rang, that of Sam. Dean picked up, throwing a glance to his brother who was watching him, waiting to find out where the call came from.

"Hello?"

One second of silence. "Dean?"

"Dad?"

Dean had the same sensation as when you fall down the stairs, his blood running cold and the feeling of impending death. Sam had stood up, frowning, and Kevin had made a gesture toward him as if to hold him back or support him. It was instinctive and Sam put his hand on the one Kevin was keeping tight on his arm without thinking.

"Dean... I apologize. I apologize to the both of you."

Dean said nothing, speechless, shocked, until Dorothy who had approached him gently takes the phone out of his hand. "Mister Winchester... He'll call you back."

Sam wasn't taking his gaze off Dean's, torn between anger and another feeling he didn't define yet.

"He... He apologizes." Dean stammered.

Several emotions succeeded one another very quickly on Sam's face, contempt, anger, doubt, joy, bitterness, before he decides on a kind of tired relief. "About time." He sighed, shrugging. He turned to the dismantled car, almost ready to be reassembled. "About time." He repeated in a low tone.

Kevin pressed his arm one last time before releasing it and Sam smiled.

##

"_I've been told too often,_

_I'll never be a rock star,_

_That I'm barely able to fix cars,_

_But they forgot to mention I'm not a shooting star,_

_I wanna be a legend._"

Dean still had hands dirty from having worked all day on the car, but Castiel had absolutely wanted to drag him to church despite his protests. They sat on the first bench, staring at the altar and Dean wondered if Castiel was praying. If they had the right to speak in a church, even if it was empty. He had the impression that their breaths were doing an infernal noise in the nave and he felt obliged to say something, anything to break the silence.

"You know, in this state, we could get married."

"Would you like to?" Castiel asked without taking his eyes off the altar.

"Would you say yes?"

"Probably." Dean waited for the "but" that was to follow, there was always one when Castiel had that tone. "But that would bind the two of us, as if we were contractually obligated to support each other, whereas now..."

"Now when we go to bed together every night we both know that this is because we want it and we decide it in full knowledge of the cause." Dean finished.

Castiel nodded. "I must say that I quite like it."

Dean acquiesced. "For what it's worth..." He said in a low voice. "I promise to try to keep you happy and healthy as long as you will be part of my life." In light of the recent events it seemed important to emphasize that even though he knew his lover knew.

Castiel smiled. "For what it's worth, I promise to stay by your side and support you as long as you will let me take care of you."

"You may kiss the groom." The unknown voice startled them violently. They turned to find themselves facing a smiling priest. "Sorry to intrude, but I heard you talk and… For what it's worth, I have married many men and women in this church, and many of them had not written vows as sincere than yours. If I could speak on behalf of God, I would say that in His eyes, you are already married."

"God doesn't approve of people like us, padre." Dean said darkly. Neither God nor a good part of their entourage. He could name names, a long list that began with his father and ended with the fans who sent them letters of insult or threat by dozens since Castiel's confession on stage. Including his superiors in the army, and quite honestly he had to add Crowley to the list. A long list of names he would have decided to ignore without the few words of his father "I apologize". Maybe, in the end, was it necessary to fight just a little more to change things?

The priest was still smiling. "Who said that? Your father?" He shrugged when seeing their surprised faces. "I read about you Dean Winchester. You may not be a man of faith, nor a regular churchgoer, but God judges His people on their actions, not their devotion. And your actions are those of a good man. Whoever the person you love, it is God who decided of it, and He doesn't make mistakes. He doesn't expect anything in return. God's love is unconditional. As long as you love each other, isn't that proof that He approves of your union?"

Castiel had trouble not laughing at the expression of Dean. But the singer was silent a moment after the priest had stopped talking. Castiel addressed a nod to the priest. "Does his age suit you in the end?"

The man of the cloth burst into a laugh. "Why do you think I did some researches about him?"

"You told him about me? How many times have you come here?" Dean grumbled.

"Enough, and I intend to come back, with or without you."

"Well count me out, no offense padre!"

The priest shook his head. "It takes more to offend me." He vanished after saying good bye.

"Maybe he's right." Dean said, watching him go. "Maybe we were wrong to hide so long, and also wrong to unload to everybody… it only concerns us in the end."

"And maybe we don't care." Castiel added. "You're worth fighting for you, no matter what God or anyone thinks."

"_We _are worth fighting for us." Dean corrected.

Castiel nodded, and kissed the groom.

"_I was never born to be a shooting star,_

_I'm gonna make myself_

_A legend._"

* * *

**Thank you guys for reading so far! I hope you've enjoyed it! As you may know, the original French story is still in progress, and today we've caught up with it. Don't worry, the story will go on, it won't stop, but Skadia is still working on the next chapter(s), so I don't know when this story will be updated. Just know that I commit to update it as soon as the next French chapter is posted! Before then, I wish you to be in good health, and I hope to see you for the next chapter!**


	29. Chap 29 : Epilogue Music (You!) Matters

**Warnings:** Swearing, language, mention and reference to shooting

* * *

**EPILOGUE :** Music (You!) Matters

There wasn't any blank page left in the worn out leather notebook Sam was holding in his hands. They had been attached so long to this notebook of which Dean had torn apart a few pages where John had scribbled shopping lists and phone numbers that it had become like a familiar piece of furniture, a small extension of them they now had to replace.

"It's like he was forcing us to admit that now, we do what we do for ourselves, not to throw it in dad's face or to prove something. Just cause that's what we do best."

Dean smiled.

"Last year you would have said we were doing it because we couldn't do anything else."

Sam put the notebook on the hood of the car where he had perched himself. The old Impala was put together again, almost renovated. She only lacked paint. He taped the bodywork with the tip of a fingernail. "Obviously we can do something else. Even things that are less visible than this mud heap!"

"Hey! No one insults Baby!"

Sam smiled and pointed the notebook. "So what do we do? We buy another one, or do we write on the walls?"

They chose the most exuberant, the most decadent notebook they could find. A wonder with the front cover coated with royal blue velvet and arabesques embroidered with golden yarns with a satin ribbon as a bookmark and margins adorned with tiny flowers. Sam liked its flashy side and Dean loved it because he thought it beautiful. Unlike the leather notebook that seemed to be an extension of their brotherhood, this notebook found its place on a table at their home, at the reach of all, open to everyone and quickly filled with anything other than songs. Bass chords scrawled on footers, small drawings and lists of things to do between two unfinished couplets.

And a drawing on the front page. A drawing around which Charlie had added a cloud and Kevin a scribble that certainly was a cat. Two squares side by side representing the basement and the main assembly of a house.

"There, a skylight so we don't record like vampires. And several bedrooms arranged around the living room. Charlie you can paint yours in purple!" Dean had gushed, scribbling. Two lines to depict windows on the walls, an arc of circle for doors. Beds in each room with pillows with bobbles, a small pointer indicating the location of game consoles and a blue carpet in the living room to spot Chevy when she sleeps over it.

A house for all of them, no matter where and no matter when. A house they would call a home, surrounded by those they had chosen to accompany them.

"Add a garage." Had said Castiel. "A big one for Dorothy's motorbike and the Chevrolet."

Dean had added a small box and drawn a car viewed from above with the lights on.

"You know we can't afford that?" Had pontificated Kevin.

Charlie had burst into laughter, earning puzzled looks from her friends. "What worries you is money and not us arguing and ending up not wanting this house anymore?"

"If this was how things were to be done, it would have already happened." Had said Dorothy. "Put a second bathroom Dean, one is never enough."

"We'll get the money." Dean responded, adding a sink in the second bathroom, the notebook perched on his lap. "Dreams are made to come true."

"_When I felt like a useless candle,_

_You lit me up, gave my poor self a shot,_

_Being away from you is like being away from home_

_If I grew up that strong, it was thanks to you_

_I left away my hopes and dreams long ago_

_Now I glow and love and give myself a shot_

_It's worth fighting for_

_I'll give it a go_"

##

Rufus's tattoo shop had closed for the afternoon. Not that the pieces on which he was working were large or complex, but tattooing three persons at once required not being bothered. Especially if such persons had insisted on having company.

Charlie was grinding her teeth, and he could feel her tense up under the dermograph.

"Hurts like a bitch!" She snarled, compulsively tightening her hand on Sam's arm. The needle had an unpleasant noise and gave her the impression that someone was cutting her with a boiling scalpel.

"You weren't actually expecting it to do good?" Taunted the drummer sitting beside her. He was watching Rufus working with an attention he never had even when himself was under the needle. He was following closely the fine line of black ink under the skin of his friend which, little by little, was drawing a target on her collarbone, around the scar still a bit red of the bullet.

On the seat next to them, a petite blonde was busy retracing precisely the contours of a more imposing piece on the back of Dean. A large deer, hooves set in the flowers of his kidneys, nose up to the lilies on his shoulder blade. This particular piece would take time, but the singer was not really in a hurry. He was playing chess with Kevin on a travel board in equilibrium on the knees of young man.

Castiel was massaging his freshly tattooed wrist wrapped in cellophane.

Rufus finished his work and wiped one last time the ink on the skin of Charlie before improvising a bandage around her shoulder, reeling off a few hygiene rules. He did not worry too much, the tattoo was small and he had worked enough on Sam and Dean to know that they could, if necessary, recall the precautions to the young woman. Usually he did not ask questions when customers didn't spontaneously told him about their motive. But this group had become more friends than ordinary customers.

"Why a target?"

Charlie put her hand to her collarbone, only meeting plastic she refrained from crumpling between her fingers. She shrugged. "Cause I'm scared shitless that this happen again, but it's not going to prevent the worst from happening, so may as well go with it. If someone wants to gun me down, they can try, I've already survived once after all."

"No one is going to try to gun you down." Kevin said, moving his bishop. "You're almost symbols now, it would be foolish to target you."

"God forbid." Sighed Dean. He winced when Rufus retrieved the tattoo machine and started inking again a part of the chest of the deer along his spine. He buried his head between his clenched fists and did not notice the smile of Castiel.

"_You are the voices I hear in my head,_

_You are the reason I jump on the scene_

_You help me remember_

_For you what I do truly matters_"

##

The interior of the Impala smelled of old leather and painting. Sam sat down, feeling strangely misplaced, as if nothing was the right size. He probably had not grown since the last time he had slided onto the seat but perhaps his memories were a bit narrowed. Before them, Dorothy was carefully tying the crash helmet of Castiel before settling on her brand new motorcycle.

"You'd better drive carefully!" Dean grunted from the window.

"Never!" The young woman teased before stepping on the gas. Sam smiled at the motorcycle rushing forward in the low morning traffic of Los Angeles. Castiel had insisted upon going to Coachella with Dorothy to christen the motorcycle that had cost the young woman her whole end of tour bonus.

Dean started the car and all four occupants let out a sigh of relief upon hearing the engine purr, although the fact that she had left her garage already proved she was working. Was a time, the brothers would have been relegated to the back seat while their father was driving. Was a time, they would have crammed guitar and drums in the back to travel from city to city. Now Sam was in the passenger seat and Kevin and Charlie were arguing in the back seat to the sound of an old AC/DC tape.

"We're going to Coachella." Kevin marveled, watching the scenery change slowly, buildings and traffic jams quietly making way for a highway running through the deserted landscape. The hills in the distance never seemed to move like a bad movie set. "I can't really believe it."

"You'll believe it when they begin to cast stones at us." Charlie grumbled. The festival distressed her. It also distressed Dorothy, and they had spent several nights worrying together about everything that could go wrong, thinking of impossible scenarios that made them have nightmares from which they woke up trembling and frozen with sweat several hours after.

"No one's gonna cast stones at us!" Sam said. "If the festival program has accepted us it's for a good reason!"

"Yeah, cause Crowley greased their palm!" The bassist mumbled.

"And because _Cain_ is number one in the charts for three weeks!"

"Crowley can't have bribed all these people." Dean added with a smile. "It's gonna be fine."

They all understood the fear of their friend, they shared it. And the more kilometers passed, bringing them closer of the festival, the more they felt knots in their stomachs. They were not headline acts and their performance was scheduled early in the afternoon. For Dean it meant the crowd would not be only faces in the shade, barely visible in the colorful lighting. He would see their eyes, their hands, their clothes. Who ever are the audience they would be more real and anonymous than fans met in the street or after a concert. John could not be in the crowd. But he knew that the four of them would seek him, reflexively or just for reassurance.

Him, would seek Castiel and Dorothy, whom he would probably not see. They would be away from the crowd to not be too bothered or recognized. But the idea of their presence had something reassuring, as if knowing that he had friends in the crowd could help the singer evacuating the ball of stress that made him miss the interstate exit after Palm Springs.

They reached the stage door, away from the crowds and had their bracelets tied. Charlie had trouble stem the anxiety that shook her by waves. She had a dry throat and the impression of not being able to breathe. Kevin was holding her hand very tight behind the scene. She had refused to eat or drink anything.

"Dammit it's hard!" She muttered, cocking her head to look at the crowd beyond the stage

"If it seems easy to you, usually there's something you're doing wrong." Replied Dean. She smiled.

"You learned that from Cas?"

"Rhonda Hurley actually." He corrected her. "Cas comes with an instruction manual and a road map."

"No autopilot?"

"I put him in manual mode most of the time."

The bassist burst into a laugh. A long laugh that came from the bottom of a place that fear and fatigue had not yet reached, and eventually reached them all. For a moment, she was worried that the public hear them. The next moment she did not care. The next moment, Dean was pulling her by the hand, leading her to the scene.

It was not easy, it was terrifying. But it was the right thing to do.

"_You might feel like a broken candle_

_But I will light you up_

_And give you a shot_

_For as long as we all remember_

_That music can really matter_"

Soft toys were prohibited on the festival and of course she had obtained permission to disperse several on stage. It was a joke that no longer amused anyone except her for a long time, but the orange snake which pulled its tongue from its place on the mic stand of Dean was strangely reassuring her. Sam pulled her arm while settling behind his drums and showed her something from the tip of his stick. A tiny dreamcatcher hanging from one cymbal stand. Charlie felt tears of anguish and relief up in her eyes. She could imagine Dorothy handing the item she had surely crafted herself to Madison, and the young woman carefully hanging it there where she knew the group would notice it as a sign that she thought about them.

Suddenly, shouts and applause seemed less violent in her ears. The knot in her stomach loosened a little, just enough for her to take a deep breath and send a silent thank to heaven for that little respite. Suddenly, the festival seemed as friendly as the years when she knocked around as a spectator. She seized her green bass and passed the strap over her shoulder. Under her shirt, she brushed her scar and the tattoo surrounding it with her fingertips.

"You survived, you can do it." She told herself in an undertone.

There was a stuffed elephant on the bass drum and Sam put it down before the drums before sitting in his place. From where he was, he saw only the heads of the spectators and felt a pang of emotion. There were many. Young. Joyful. Most had already gotten sunburnt on the nose. He who had often mocked artists who endlessly discoursed on their fans and how important they were suddenly became aware that as silly as the speech might seem, it was true. These people had led them here today, and they were here to share with them something they thought important. And he, Sam, felt duty-bound to at least give of himself as much as he could. Till his hands bleed. Anyway, he didn't perceive the album they were presenting for the first time to the public any other way.

The sound was incredibly good for an open space. Kevin did not remember having been more stressed in his life. He did not remember having one day held his bow so hard it was shaking in his hand. And he did not remember either having ever felt such an emotion upon hearing their music mingling with the sounds of the huge crowd of the festival, the remote sounds of the other scenes and the crazy beat of his own blood in his ears. He completely plunged into a strange trance of which he did not want to come out, and the songs came one after another as if he really had done it all his life. Or as if he was destined to never do anything else.

Music imposed its rhythm and movements to Dean who was running from one end to the other of the scene. He should have been short of breath but he was still singing, urging the crowd to do the same and enjoying the power he had to make them jump on the spot and sing along with him the words that came from the bottom of them all. He had the vague vision of himself, years earlier, playing for an indifferent public in an old bar. He was no longer the same person, and he found himself wondering who he would be in the next several years? But for now, it didn't matter.

"You gotta know" The singer said, smiling at the crowd. "We've heard that song so much we all hate it... If you don't know what happened last year, it's going to sound stupid, but for the others... I guess you'll get why we had to do it today."

"And we're really sorry for the inconvenience!" Shouted Charlie who had just grabbed the microphone.

Without looking, Castiel knew that all eyes were set on him. Now his face was almost as famous as Dean's. Castiel had never removed the photo of his naked companion which took center stage above the phone of the entrance of his apartment, and in revenge, Dean had framed an enlargement of a photo of Castiel at the Gay Pride and had hung it in his living room.

Charlie had tweeted it and since they were receiving every day pictures of the same enlargement framed in fan's living rooms.

People around him knew. He was no longer anonymous in the crowd. He was Dean Winchester's lover. He was the one who had defeated cancer, homophobia and an abusive family. The man in the old trench coat, dragging even more worn jeans to go in the backstage and kiss the person he loved at the end of the concert. Now everyone knew.

He didn't look anybody, smiled, and hid his face behind his camera, zooming in on the scene while Dean kept talking.

"He saved me, and I'm sure he can still save many other people..."

Kevin's cello began the first notes of _"My heart will go on" _and Castiel burst out laughing, alone in his corner of the crowd. Now, everyone knew how many times he had seen this movie and how many times he had forced the group to watch it with him. People around him were smiling while lights were becoming green on the stage.

The lyrics were silly but Dean's voice made them look... real. It was true that they would go on and on as long as they could rely on each other. This was not only talking about Dean and him, but also the relationship between the band and their fans.

When Dean was singing eyes closed, one hand clutching the microphone, it seemed true that love can touch us one time and last for a lifetime. No one but them knew the sweetness of their relationship. Everyone was aware of the difficulties, but the infinite love that united them was visible only very rarely, the few times they allowed themselves to indulge in public.

Castiel had lowered the camera. He had his eyes on Dean, mind lost in the song and the emotion of the moment. He was trying to carve each sensation in his memory. The sun on his shoulders, the light, the crowd singing in chorus, and the girl next to him saying to someone "I wish someone would look at me like that one day."

He did not know how much his face was reflecting the adoration and happiness he was feeling at this moment. He was only feeling big tears rolling down his cheeks when he wasn't even sad, and their salty taste. How a song this silly, heard so many times could make him shiver while the notes were still increasing and Dean standing more straight to force music off his lungs?

How could this be as intimate when they were surrounded by thousands people? How could drums, cello and bass tune so perfectly to Dean's voice that for a moment Castiel had the impression of not even touching the ground anymore?

He closed his eyes and whispered the last words together with Dean and the whole crowd. "You are safe in my heart and my heart will go on and on."

It could not have been more perfect if Crowley had written it. A moment later, Castiel was pushed, pulled on stage, and hugged Dean against his heart with all his strength, showering him with endearments echoing through the microphone. No matter that the whole world sees him calling Dean his sweetheart and kissing him in front of everyone and crying and…

He didn't give a damn.

Dean held his hand very tight, fixed his eyes dilated with excitement to his and smiled: "You jump, I jump?"

Castiel nodded. They jumped in the crowed.

Not a single hand let them down.

It was bliss.

"_Give your art a shot_

_For someone out there it means a lot_

_Don't let your dreams die and rot_

_Yours are the faces I'll remember_

_Everytime I might forget_

_That for someone out there_

_Music really matters_"

##

"When I'm a grown-up I wanna be like you!"

The kid was looking at him with big eyes full of admiration, clasping tightly his festival ticket that Dean had just signed. The singer had had to kneel in the dry earth to be at the child's height and smiled.

"Good idea lil' buddy."

He did not know what else to say, and found himself thinking about the discussion he had had with Castiel about the children they would not have. Probably because the accountant was standing a few steps away. What would he say to this kid if he was his son? Or Sam?

The answer was so obvious it made him smile again.

"You want a piece of advice?"

The kid nodded feverishly.

"Try to be the best as possible at school. I haven't been much there. So if you're real good, you can do songs even better than my own. And when you're more experienced than me, I'll come and ask you for an autograph."

The boy's eyes widened and his mouth opened in an expression of joy that Dean had rarely seen. He nodded solemnly.

"Promised." He said as he handed him a small hand that Dean shook, feeling strangely moved. He watched the child leave, accompanied by his mother, and felt the hand of Castiel on his shoulder.

"So?" Asked the accountant. "How does it feel to be the little boys idol?"

Dean raised his head to look at him. The sun made him squint, but he did not move.

"It feels like it's really worth fighting for."

Castiel pressed his shoulder. Tightly.

"_Give yourself a shot_

_You are a melody_

_And you matter_"

**THE END**

* * *

**Post notes**

I've spent so much time, energy and love to write this fic for past two years (damn, that much?) I'm having trouble finishing.

I could tell you so much more. Tell you that _Free Will _will never be the biggest rock band in the world, but will have thanks to their fans a long and interesting career. I could tell you that Dean and Cas will throw themselves into child protection and attempt to be models of hope for everyone they'll come across. Of curse they'll stay together. I could tell you about Sam's conquests and how he will continue to heal his wounds through music. I know Madison is going to stay with the group and open a travel blog filled with experiences and photos taken by Castiel. I do not know if Dorothy and Charlie will stay together more than a few years, but I know they will still be friends when the son of Kevin and Channing will discover a passion for painting. Because yes, these two will eventually get together!

But it would be pointless because the whole story was intended solely to bring the characters where they are now. If they forged themselves and got themselves back on track with music, I've shaped myself with this story, and now it's over, I can see how it speaks of me and of my own fights. That's why, for once, I feel the deep need to thank all of you from the bottom of my heart for all your words of encouragement, and having come through this story with me. It is really important!

So thank you. From the bottom of my small heart, thank you!

Skadia

**Translator's notes:**

One year already... Dammit, it goes fast! I can't really believe one year has passed since I've started working with Skadia on her work...

Anyway guys, I wanted to thank every single one of you, those who've read, those who've left comments, those who've stayed with us all the way down... Thank you, really, your love and support was the most wonderful thing ever! Thank you, thank, you, thank you...

Deidato


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